


Strings

by emiavici



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiavici/pseuds/emiavici
Summary: Her best friend is back, and for the first time in years, Arya remembers what it feels like to be content. Gendry thinks he might be falling for her. Little stories detailing the many moments Gendry spends with Arya after his return to Winterfell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [13letters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13letters/gifts).



She wanted to say that there were no dragons in Dragonstone, but Daenerys Targaryen had sailed across the Narrow Sea with hers, and now they soared about the melted rock and over the restless sea. Her brother had seen those dragons, even touched one, but Gendry had not been there to witness it. Arya turned to him. “When were you in Dragonstone?”

“That’s where the red woman took me,” he admitted. _After the brotherhood sold you_. “To Lord Stannis before he died.”

“Why would she bring you to Lord Stannis?” _Had another king wanted him dead? Did Lord Stannis offer her gold as well?_ That pained look on his face meant he was thinking. It made her wary. “What did you do?” _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ “What did the goldcloaks want with you? Does it have anything to do with my father?”

“Lord Stark only asked questions,” he answered. It did not ease her mind either way. “When the red woman brought me to Lord Stannis, he told it true. I’m King Robert’s bastard son.” 

 _King Robert’s son_ , she thought incredulously. Arya could scarce believe it. She remembered her own bastard brother Jon Snow. Small wonder where Gendry’s strength came from, and his talent for fighting. He did not know his way around a sword, but put a hammer in his hands and he could cave a man’s breastplate in. Gendry was a threat to all of Cersei Lannister’s children. _He has the better claim._

“ _Half-Robert, half-lowborn_ , he said, but I’m still a bastard.”

“A bastard with more right to the throne than Joffrey,” Arya pointed out. 

“I’m only here because he grabbed my mother instead of the girl next to her in the tavern.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” she had not expected Gendry to need coaxing. Yet, the realization of it all was beginning to dwell on her. “Joffrey was not Robert’s son. That’s probably why my father came looking for you and the others.” 

“There were more?”

“Of course there were more,” Arya shook her head. “The king liked to drink and eat and bask in the company of women who weren’t his wife. He tried to do plenty of it in Winterfell, and I’m sure he had more luck on the actual throne,” she paused. “Lord Arryn went asking questions, then my father. He must have found out what killed the last Hand, and Cersei would do anything to protect her children,” Arya frowned. _Father must have told her what he knew_. _Honor would compel him to tell the king. Loyalty is what cost him his head_. “Why would Cersei send the goldcloaks for one bastard boy already on his way to the Wall, if she didn’t want to rid of every threat to her children?”

Gendry pondered that. “Then it’s my fault Lord Stark’s dead.”

“No,” she said firmly. “He shouldn’t have gone looking. He shouldn’t have asked questions. He shouldn’t have agreed to be the king’s hand.” 

A quiet silence passed over them, allowing her time to remember her father. Arya still missed him dearly, and her mother, and her brothers Robb and Rickon. She found justice for them at the Twins, but for her father, it was not enough to know Joffrey choked on his poisoned wedding wine. Cersei Lannister must die. Her name was still on the list, and Arya intended to cross her from it.

.:.

“Are we going in? It’s freezing, and the snow’s starting to fall.”

“It’s still light outside, and I want to see you use that weapon,” she reached for Needle and drew it. “You did say it’s been a while.”

Gendry felt for his warhammer and smiled, ever slightly. “The odds aren’t even, m’lady.” 

“Are you afraid you’ll lose to a girl?” 

“No, but I am afraid of what the king will do to me when he finds out.”

“Then I suppose we won’t tell him,” Arya smirked. She lunged at him before he could think of something to say, and soon they were sparring. Needle was not the best match for a warhammer, but she made do will her jabs and pokes and slashes. His weapon was massive, though, and it nearly hit her twice, but Arya was swift as a cat. _Quick as a snake. Quiet as a shadow._ She moved to thrust her sword into his side, but Gendry blocked the blow, shoved it aside, and drove the end of the hilt into her right leg. Arya nearly doubled over from the force, but managed to spin away, jabbing and thrusting and slashing time and time again. Once she made for a go at his chest and scraped his leather jerkin with the tip of her sword. Gendry already had his hammer at her side by then, and the sharp tooth of its edge was prodding her side.

“Dead,” he said, setting the weapon down.

Arya made a face. “So are you. If this was real, you’d be bleeding right _here_ ,” she pressed Needle’s point into his chest where the heart would be. 

“And if I had armor on,” he raised a finger to gently pushed her sword aside, “you’d still be dead.”

Arya shoved him and made to step back, but Gendry caught her arm. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him and they rolled across the ground. He was very strong, but she was quick. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him in the chest. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in his hands and rolled her over, so Arya slammed her knee between his legs and wrenched free. She turned him on his back and held him down with all her weight, reaching for the knife in her boot and bringing it to his neck. Both of them were covered in dirt and snow.

“I win,” Arya declared proudly.

His eyes flickered down to where she held him. “Where did you get that?” 

“Forgot I had this one.” 

Gendry struck her hand aside and reached for her other boot. When he found the second blade, he sat up as best he could and hitched the sharpest end underneath her arm. “There’s an artery here, and a slow death, m’lady.” He flipped the knife over and offered it back by the hilt.

Arya took it and stood, holding out her hand. “Who taught you that?”

“The king,” he said, accepting her aid. “He’s the best swordsman I’ve ever seen." 

.:.

“Have you ever been with someone before?”

Gendry looked at her and grimaced. “Why do you care?”

“We’re talking,” she pointed out. “I asked you a question. Answer it.” 

“Fine. Yes.”

“Who was she?” 

“Some woman. Most of them are.” 

Arya made a rude noise. She would have kicked him from where she sat, but he was too far away.

“It was the red priestess.”

That shocked her. “Gendry!” 

“What? It wasn’t my fault.”

“Why would you do that? She bought you for two bags of gold and so you shared her bed?”

He started to smile. “Imagine you’re me. Never been with a woman. Never talked to a woman, really. And then she comes at you, big words, no clothes. What would you have done?”

Arya knit her brows together. He asked her that as if she could read his bull-headed, reckless mind. “I wouldn’t have done anything.”

“That’s because you’re a girl.”

“That’s because I wouldn’t bed the person who bought me like a man buys a whore.”

“What do you know about whores anyway?” He countered.

“I’ve been in a brothel before. A few times.”

Gendry _looked_ at her. He was probably thinking about how m’lady high could do such a vile thing.

“Under a disguise,” Arya grinned. “I was looking for someone.”

He frowned. “Everyone who goes into a brothel is looking for someone.”

“Not that someone. A name to cross from my list.”

That intrigued him. “Who was it?”

“Some gold-hatted prick who liked little girls.” The mere mention of Meryn Trant was making her mad. She hated that man with every inch of her soul, just as the other names on her list. She didn’t hate the Hound so much anymore, though. “One night, he took a nine-year-old girl from the brothel into his bed and beat her bloody. The mercy of a quick death would have been a kindness, and I made sure he bled well enough before cutting his throat.”

Gendry was not surprised to hear it, even while her voice remained unchanged and flat. He had always known of her list. Perhaps he hadn’t thought her strong enough to carry it out, but there were a lot of things Gendry did not know about Arya. She never told him about the Twins, or Braavos, or the road here for that matter.

“He killed my dancing master, Syrio Forel, and beat my sister with his sword.”

“Who else is on your list?”

“The red witch,” she grimaced. “Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Cersei Lannister, Gregor Clegane.” Tywin Lannister, Walder Frey, Joffrey Baratheon, Rorge, the Tickler, she killed most of them. The others were at the mercy of another, but it mattered only that they were dead. “Why now? You never asked before.”

“Making sure I’m not on it, is all.”

“Because you left me for the Brotherhood?” The words fell flatly from her mouth, stark and straightward, but she hadn’t intended for it to sound that way.

Gendry frowned. “You didn’t sound happy about it then.”

“You were an arse, but I vouched for you when the red woman took you away.” 

“Why?”

“Because you were my friend.”

“ _Were_ ,” he nodded. “What am I to you now?”

It struck her, in a way, to hear the strain in his voice. Gendry sounded upset, but not angry like he had been when Arya wanted him to smith for Robb. Her childlike mind would have thought him a fool, but she allowed herself a small smile of recognition. There was something else going through his mind, and she had an inkling as to what it might be. Arya leaned forward. “Still an arse.”

He knew she was taunting him, but in his eyes, she saw that he was searching for an honest answer. Perhaps he had felt this way toward her ever since, but she had been too young then to understand. “Far from the worst one, actually.” Arya added, glancing at her folded hands in her lap.

.:.

They sat directly opposite of each other, grey staring back at blue, legs crossed and minds putting the pieces of the game together. 

“I went to the Twins after. Walder Frey was on my list. He killed my mother and brother, but the north remembers. I spent three days and two nights watching, gathering faces and planning when to strike. The night Jaime Lannister came with his army, Walder Frey hosted a feast. I poured their drinks and served their food, but at night I listened, and learned everything I could about Walder Frey. What he did, where he went, what he liked, who he liked, who he hated. And when the time came, one by one his sons went missing from their beds, their faces stolen, each boy absent from supper with their father. Walder Frey wondered where they were, called them names, but they never came. I tried to kill him with poison, but he refused to be widowed again. There the knife was, shined and clean, right at his throat. He’s dead now, as is the rest of his family.” 

Gendry said nothing for a while, but the look on his face meant that he was thinking. Perhaps he had heard what happened to the Freys—news traveled fast to King’s Landing—or perhaps he had heard nothing at all. It did not matter. What mattered was that Gendry started to smile. Arya had told a similar story to Jaqen H’ghar, even lied about the insignificant details to try and catch the him off guard, but the faceless men always saw right through her. Gendry could not, and so Arya turned on him the way the Waif had turned on her. “Was that true, or a lie?”

His face fell. “What?”

“Did you believe every word I said?” 

He only looked at her. Disbelief had ripped out his tongue, and once again, Gendry fell into deep thought. She brought him out of it, though, for the game of faces would not stop just yet.

“Back in Dragonstone,” he began, after a while, “I saw things I’d never think to see. Lord Stannis gave me a room with a fancy bed and fancy wine, and dressed me in fine clothes to match his fine castle. But when the red woman came, she had as many pretty words as there were grains of sand by the sea, and she strapped me down, took off my fine clothes, and put leeches on me. I hated every minute of it.”

“A lie,” she said.

He furrowed his brows. “She tried to kill me.”

“Another lie.”

“Alright, they never got to it, but they _wanted_ to,” he answered this time. “I almost died on the way to King’s Landing.” 

“Closer. And now the truth?”

Gendry swallowed. “I made it safely.” He mumbled the first time. The second time he looked up at her, defiant. “I was afraid I’d drown. Never learned how to swim.”

“Then we will have to teach you,” Arya smiled. 

.:. 

They were in her room again, sharing another flagon of ale. Arya sat on the ground cross-legged, across from Gendry, who made himself comfortable lounging against the stone wall. Every now and then, when he reached for the flask, his knee would bump hers.  

"I still can't believe you went north of the Wall."

He glanced up when she said it. "What?"

"The closest thing you had to battle was those Lannister soldiers in the Riverlands," she deadpanned. "Earlier, you told me you were getting ready for something, but you never knew what for."

"Yeah, that’s true. We don't get to pick and choose our wars."

She almost smiled. "No, we don't." Arya paused. "But you chose not to fight for my brother Robb. You chose the Brotherhood. And then when you made it to King's Landing, you chose to stay and arm the Lannisters."

He stilled at that. “Only because it was the safest place to go where I could find work and hide from the queen.”

"You dropped everything to join Jon," she bulled right over him. "Even went beyond the Wall and risked your life. When Ser Davos found you on the street of steel, you didn’t even know who or what you were fighting for. So, when you saw it was my brother and the army of the dead, what made you trust him?”

Gendry just started at her. "You." 

"I don’t know what that means."

"I worried about you, you know," he said stiffly. "Wondered where you were, if you got to your family. When I found out they were dead, I thought you were, too.”

“Not me,” she said. “Not today.”

For a moment, he smiled. “When I met the king, the first thing I noticed was that he looked just like you. I told him who I was, and hoped he might say something about Lady Arya Stark, but he didn’t. And then I thought maybe he found you, but never said anything because he still mourned his little sister.” 

She softened, ever slightly.

“Jon Snow might be the first king to ever deserve that title and hate it,” he chuckled. “And if I never saw you again, well, at least I’d be fighting for your family.” He leaned forward to grab the flagon of ale, but Arya caught his arm and drew him close, her lips at his ear.

“If it wasn’t for you, my brother would be dead. House Stark owes you a great debt.”

He did not say anything for a while, but when he did, his voice carried a fondness she had not yet heard, and he sighed softly. “House Stark owes me nothing, m’lady.”

The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down her spine. She lowered her gaze to hide her smile when he leaned back. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Gendry hummed. “As m’lady commands.”

They were nearly touching, and she was quite aware of just how close he was. The thought of it all excited her, and when she looked back up at him, he kissed her, and nothing had ever felt so sweet.

He was gentle, wary of some rejection, but it never came. Arya was not entirely sure if she was even doing this right. All she knew was that it felt good, and that she did not want him to stop. _Is this what Sansa had been reading in her books all these years?_ She dreamed of how she wanted to fall in love with her fair prince Joffrey the way the knights loved their ladies in the songs. Sansa wanted to be whisked away to King’s Landing and sail ships along the shore as the sun set behind them. Arya wondered how she managed to live the tale before her sister ever could, and without the promise of sunset ships and golden flowers. 

When Gendry broke away, she felt her skin flush where his nose brushed against hers. 

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked. 

“No,” she said easily.

And then he was kissing her, again, and again, and again. Arya could not describe why she loved the way he did when there was nothing for her to compare. Gendry was her first, but she was not his, and that did not bother her as much as she thought it would. His mouth took her lower lip between his teeth in a way that made her heart beat faster and her mind run circles. She wanted him to do it again, and reached out to cup his cheek in her hand, but Gendry only kissed her harder. She liked that, too, and smiled against his lips.

He pulled back. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” she lied.

He stared at her briefly, trying to read her face. “You sure you’ve never been with another man?" 

Arya wove her fingers through his dark black hair. “You sound ridiculous. Don’t make me change my mind.”

He grinned. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No." 

It was too easy. “You _are_.”

“Who was he?”

“A boy from the south,” she lied again, but his expression the moment she said it was invaluable. “Tall, dark hair, blue eyes like the sea. Gods, he was built like a mountain—”

Gendry cleared his throat. “Yeah thanks, I think I’ve heard enough.”

Arya tried to smother her laugh, but the longer she stared at his face, the more she could not help it. She started to chuckle. “It’s you, stupid.”

“You’re cruel, you know that? Worse than—”

Arya pulled him back to her, and the rest of their words were lost in each other’s mouths. She kissed him as hard as he had kissed her, and his hand moved to brush along her leg before settling over her knee. She never imagined it would have come to this, after all. They were travelers at first, then prisoners, then servants, then runaways. He was stolen by the priestess in red and she the Hound, always moving, never stopping. Yet they had found each other again, reunited, kissing, away from the rest of Winterfell and everyone in it.

She never wanted this moment to end. Her fingers were tangled in his hair to hold him close, and Arya lingered in the moments where his lips steered from hers and brushed along her neck. Sometimes, when he felt bold, Gendry tugged at the collar of her leather jerkin and kissed her there, but she would bring him up before things moved too fast. She wanted to cherish the feeling of her first kiss, which had quickly turned into ten, and twenty, and fifty, but neither of them were really counting. It felt like an hour had passed before they lost their breath. The snow was falling heavier outside, but Arya felt warm. Gendry just watched her, his fingers tracing the lines of her face where he’d kissed her half a hundred times, and she thought about the taste of him and how it lingered on her lips. “Gendry.”

“Arya.”

The way he said her name made her smile. “I need to go.”

He remembered then. “You don’t have to.”

“What would you have me say? I got distracted?”

“You could just tell the king what happened.”

She pushed him back with both hands. “Are you _that_ willing to die?”

“What? We didn’t do anything.”

“He has a direwolf,” she warned. “The biggest one.”

“Ghost loves me.”

“You’re a liar.” 

“You shouldn’t insult people that are bigger than you.” 

Arya made a face. “Then I wouldn’t get to insult anyone.”

Gendry laughed. She loved that, too, but she needed to meet with Jon and Sansa. Arya looked into his sea-blue eyes and wove her fingers through his hair again. He had taken enough energy from her today. She supposed he would want to do that again, and more if she would let him. “If Jon found out, he would kill you,” Arya said, standing.

“Now?” He objected, reaching out to grab her cloak. She twisted it from his grip with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Now it is. As m’lady commands." 

The moment she made to walk, Gendry stood and caught her from behind. Arya groaned, but secretly, she loved every second. “I hate you.”

He pushed her hair aside with his nose and kissed that secret spot behind the ear.  “No, you don’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of the overwhelming number of positive responses and requests, and ultimately, as a surprise for 13letters (to whom this is gifted), I have decided to continue this story with one final chapter (edit: lol nvm there will be more). 
> 
> This takes place a month or so after the last chapter. Gendry is lounging against the wall on the ground in Arya’s room, looking at a book he doesn’t know how to read, when she decides to explore a different aspect of their relationship in those late midnight hours.

Gendry saw her approaching, but he had not expected Arya to take the book from his hands then, let it drop to the floor, and climb astride. He also never had time to react properly before she was kissing him, long and deep, with her hands holding his face. His body responded to that quick enough, flushing with desire in a way that might actually get him killed by Jon Snow, but his hands reached for her hips and pulled her closer. The red woman slipped into his mind, but Gendry shut her memory out. He would not let some witch deface this for him.

Arya placed her hands on his shoulders and moved to break away after a time, but Gendry wanted to hold onto her a little longer, praying that she could not feel him stiffen beneath her.  

 _Gods,_ he was breathless. "What was that for?"

Arya shifted against him in silence, the movement making his breath hitch in his throat. She noticed that, and something wicked flashed in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him. "You liked it." 

He kissed her neck just below her jaw. "I did."

"What don't you like?"

"When you stop." He knew that would make her smile.

Gendry thought about the days following his arrival in Winterfell, and the stoic void that was Arya. A true faceless man, masking every thought and feeling within the depths of her mind. She was no longer the little girl he remembered during their travels down south. She was a woman now, and Gendry longed for the moments where he could steal her away to hold her close and kiss her as much as he liked. And how he loved the kissing. 

Arya was not making any of this easy for him. She was a monumental tease, often catching him by surprise because he cannot quite predict anything that she does, and Gendry still questioned how much he could take before she realized that he wanted her, all to himself. Or perhaps she already knew, and this was simply an act of defiance to make his skin crawl. The latter made more sense. He contemplated how obvious his feelings for her were, and knew very well that if she was displeased with him at all, he would know. 

Gendry wanted to test those waters, to see how far she was willing to go. He swiftly pulled at the collar of her leather jerkin and nipped at her skin just above the collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. In an instant, Arya's hand was there and she shot him a glare.  

"If anyone sees that, I might actually kill you."

"You liked it," he said back at her, smirking.

She remained silent. That was her confession in of itself. Gendry slid his hands from her hips to lower back, and pulled her flush against him.

"You want me to do it again?" 

Still, Arya said nothing, but when he pressed his lips to her neck once more, she sighed softly and buried her fingers in his hair. Gendry thought himself a hopeless man, so enveloped by this woman he loved with all his heart, completely weak underneath her touch. When she lifted herself slightly, drawing his mouth down, he wrapped his arms around her and brought her back, having missed the weight of her against his legs. 

Arya must have felt him this time, despite their fervor, because she pulled him away. Gendry kept his eyes closed as his hands fell to the ground, a sliver of disappointment rushing through him, wondering if this might just be the last time she held his face in her grasp. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" 

He opened his eyes and saw her sly grin. "I thought you were going to hate me for it." 

"Why would I?" 

All seven gods could not lessen the swell in his chest. "Why _wouldn't_ you?"

She took a moment to answer. "Maybe I feel the same way."

His heart nearly stopped, then the realization of what that meant set in, and he panicked. If he tried anything, and for some reason the king found out, Gendry’s head would most like be mounted on a spike or fed to his direwolf for supper. "Arya—"

"What? Are you afraid someone might catch us?” She asked defiantly. “The door is locked, and it's very late."

"I don't think—"

"If you want to, and I want to," she brushed her fingers across his chest. "Then, why don't we?"

He was at loss for words, but once Gendry regained his wits, he said, "I can't do that to you."

"Why not?"

"You're a highborn," he said sadly. "You're a lady."

"I don't care about any of that."

"I would not dishonor you."

Arya reached for his hands and laced their fingers together. "What dishonor, if the world is going to end soon anyway?" 

 _She_ would be the end of him, indeed. "And if it doesn't?" 

"Then we can do this as much as we like after the war, until we grow old or tired."

He had not thought Arya Stark to be poetic in this sense, but her reassurance started the loosen the strings of his heart, and he held out hope for them, for the future. "You would grow old with me?" 

She smiled. "Just so."

"Then marry me," the words stumbled from his mouth, surely unsteady. "You said it yourself, the world might end soon anyway,” and he hoped she would find his hidden meaning. "Of course, if m'lady would have me."

Arya turned to gaze at their joined hands in thought. In those moments they shared the silence, Gendry felt his blood pounding and heart fluttering with angst. He started to think of every possible answer she could give him, but the more he did, the more dread he felt, for he was just a bastard and she was a princess. She deserved castles and golden jewels and a prince to warm her bed, but he thought about that, too, and how even if she had all those things, Arya would still wear trousers and fight with skinny swords until she went to sleep with bruises all over her arms and legs. Every second that went by felt like minutes, but then she looked back up at him, and smiled. "Your lady would have you."

He kissed her deeply, longingly, lovingly. _She's mine, all mine_ , Gendry thought as he moved to his feet, carrying her with him. Arya was as light as a feather in his strong arms, but he felt as if they were floating, as if he could carry her and hold her close forever, no matter what happened. And in the end, they would still be back here doing the same thing, together.

When he reached her bed, Gendry set her down gently against the furs and climbed over her, sighing against her lips when he felt her legs hold him down. "I love you," he whispered. _Forever and always_. "I love you." 

Arya wrapped her arms around him and laughed softly. "I love you, too."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know how this happened, but I blame 13letters for making me weak to this ship and writing more. This was only supposed to be one chapter. ONE.
> 
> Takes place directly after the last chapter.

She had not seen her bull-headed smith since sunrise.

Arya spent the morning sparring with Podrick Payne. His lady knight Brienne of Tarth had left for King’s Landing over a month ago, but she needed someone to train with. Jon was occupied with a newly-arrived visitor that she had not yet seen, and Gendry was nowhere to be found. She had strolled past the forge earlier seeking his distraction, but the only smith there was that blonde-haired man from Barrowtown, Emry. He was six-and-twenty, far taller, with a long face and hooked nose. He often wore his hair in a bun to keep it off his shoulders, and trimmed his thick beard short. Emry said very little to her, though he worked hard making armor and forging weapons. Gendry told her once that he had a family in Winter Town, and that his wife was an innkeep. Perhaps the war had brought them north to Winterfell, as well as the grain her sister was gathering within the walls.

Arya was standing atop the foyer, watching as boys and girls younger than the Little Bear learned to shoot with arrows in the courtyard, when Maester Wolkan came to her. “My lady,” he greeted. “There is a court gathering in the Great Hall, and the king has invited you to join him at the high table with Lady Sansa.” 

She smiled kindly at him. “Thank you, maester.”

Arya remembered then, as he stooped and turned to leave, that she would need to find a way into his stockroom. Gendry had kept her fairly occupied throughout the night. Her mind drifted to their second coupling, when she awoke to the sensation of his lips at the nape of her neck. She had called him a dog instead of a bull, and he turned her over to kiss her full on the mouth in some semblance of defiance. After a time, she climbed astride and he pushed himself upright, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and his hands sweeping along her back, their lips never quite meeting but their noses brushing together and breaths mingling in the cool night air. It happened twice more after, and again this morning. In Braavos, Daena the mummer had often called on Mercy to fetch ingredients for moon tea. Mercy did not frequently ask questions, but after it became routine, she learned.

Arya was the last to arrive at court, for when the guards opened the great wooden doors, they had already begun. Her brother Jon was seated at the center with Sansa to his left and Ser Davos to his right. _The king’s Hand_. Other lords and ladies of greater houses sat below them, near the top, and those of lesser houses near the bottom. She spotted Gendry at the center with Podrick beside him, as well as a fat man dressed in black leather and a black cloak. He was standing, speaking, and Arya suddenly recognized him. When she was still a girl, scruffy and ragged on the streets of Braavos, she had saved him from two men looking to start a fight. She had shared with him her clams, and he his name. _Samwell, of House Tarly._

Arya leaned against the great stone archway, her arms crossed behind her back. A few men turned to look at her, even Jon, but she remained.

“Fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel are the only weapons known to kill white walkers,” Tarly said. “We have two of them in abundance, but there are only two-hundred and twenty-seven Valyrian steel swords in Westeros, and some of them are lost. Even if we collected and melted every one of them to make smaller weapons…" 

“There are three living smiths in the world who know how to rework it,” the king finished for him. “None of them are in Westeros. That’s a problem.”

“I took every book and scroll I could find on Valyrian steel from the Citadel before we left Oldtown.” Sam shifted where he stood. “One of them was nearly faded through, almost two-hundred years old, but it detailed an experiment performed by a smith in Braavos who learned how to forge Valyrian steel from different metals combined together.”

Every person in the room turned to him then, and listened closely. Tarly glanced about, somewhat startled by the sudden attention.

“No one has been able to forge a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” Jon pointed out.

“There might have been secret mines where the ores could be found, but if there is any record of this, I have not seen it,” Sam offered. “I don’t know how the Braavosi smith discovered what metals make up Valyrian steel. That part was far too damaged to read, but the maester who wrote the book listed each one. They can be found near Meereen and Volantis.” 

“Meereen,” Jon breathed. “Is there nothing in Westeros? Nothing at all?” 

Sam looked almost sad. “No.” 

“It will take months to acquire these supplies, and the army of the dead will be upon Eastwatch soon.” The king went quiet, and very still. “We must still try. So long as the Wall stands, we will keep mining dragonglass, and we will attempt this Braavosi experiment at Valyrian steel. If we send a raven to Daenerys Targaryen at once, she will make haste to bring those resources here.” 

“There’s something else,” Tarly knit his brows together. “It's rumored that the Valyrians used dragon fire to melt Valyrian steel. There is nothing that burns quite as hot, and the queen has two of them.” 

“We don’t need dragons,” Gendry suddenly chimed in, and when they turned to him, he seemed deep in thought, eyes far away, but then he straightened and looked to the king. “We can use wildfire.”

Beric Dondarrion smiled at that. “Thoros told me that Tobho Mott always raised his price every time he came back from a tourney. Said he needed to stop using wildfire to set it alight."

“Because it ruins good steel,” Gendry grimaced.

Sam noticed that. “You’ve forged weapons with wildfire before?”

He nodded. “There’s some metal you can’t reshape quick enough without it.”

The king lifted his head, and Arya saw the gears in his mind turning. She had an inkling as to how the rest of this exchange would be carried out the moment Gendry said _wildfire_. Her brother directed his attention to Sam. “Do you know how to make wildfire?”

“If you would permit me access to Winterfell’s library and the maester’s—" 

“You shall have it,” Jon accepted without a second thought. Sam inclined his head in thanks, and resumed his seat. “Provide Maester Wolkan with that list, and tell him that we need those supplies now. If he has any issue, he may come to me directly,” the king instructed. “Thank you, Sam.”

Lord Glover spoke up next. “Your Grace, the smiths in Essos will want very large sums of gold for their service.”

“They would, my lord,” Jon acknowledged. “But we will not be inviting them to Winterfell.”

Sansa looked aghast to hear it. Arya smiled knowingly. Lord Manderly stood from his chair. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but who better to forge Valyrian steel than the men with knowledge to rework it?”

“We can find the gold to pay them,” Sansa said bluntly. “I trust that Lord Manderly will provide ships to bring them north?”

The burly man nodded.

Ser Davos was beginning to see how the king intended to handle this task, and spoke in his defense. “I believe Winterfell already has a blacksmith, my lords, my lady. A skilled one, and loyal to the king.”

All eyes in the room turned to Gendry, who sat quietly in his chair, wrapped in his warm winter cloak. He looked about the room carefully, coming around to understand the logic of the king’s plan. 

“He’s just a boy,” Lord Glover objected.

“One-and-twenty, a year less than the king,” Beric pointed out. “Would you call _him_ a boy?”

Lord Glover faltered. _He’s not a boy any longer_ , Arya thought.

“I’ve seen his work,” Ser Davos said. “And he’s strong for his age.”

Arya decided to speak up then, emerging from the archway. “Gendry made a bull’s head helmet as an apprentice,” she said loudly. “The Lannister men took it for themselves at Harrenhal, but one wore it around like a prize. People wondered where he found the gold to pay for it."

The smith flushed and looked across the room at her, then to Ser Davos. When he regained his wits, he moved to stand. “If you command it, Your Grace, I will try.”

“The forge is yours then,” Jon nodded. “If you are successful, you will be rewarded, and any resources you require shall be provided for you.”

.:.

He had spent a week with Sam reading those books and scrolls, despite knowing that there would be two or three turns of the moon before he had the chance to try. Gendry could not read. He never learned to, but he listened very closely to each word, piecing the puzzle together in his mind, imagining how he would carry it out with the information they had. When Sam read it aloud the sixth or seventh time, Gendry had quipped that maybe _he_ could forge the damn thing, too, and the man in black laughed.

As Tobho Mott’s apprentice, some of the best swords in King’s Landing found their way to his shop. Good steel was easy to come by, but the best steel took time. Mott used to knock him upside the head if he forgot to use the right amount of wood and charcoal, or let it burn too fast, or dip the metal in rainwater instead of letting it cool down slowly. Gendry remembered the first time he poured wildfire into that chamber and set it alight. Nothing heated the forge quite like it, and soon enough both smiths were bare-chested beneath their leather aprons. No commonplace steel could be used against this flame. Like Thoros’ sword, wildfire would burn right through.

In the books, the smith from Braavos had used porous iron primed with wood or charcoal under ordinary flame to form what he believed to be Valyrian steel, but it took three days of heating and cooling before he began shaping it. That particular iron ingot was found in abundance near Meereen and Volantis, but Valyrian steel was still steel, and that bothered Gendry more than the amount of time it would take for those resources to reach Winterfell. The secret to forging it may be lost, but the materials still existed, and they were expensive, but so were those swords he’d spent half a day heating in wildfire.

Gendry loomed over the forge’s supply of steel in the storeroom. He often thought about the legends of dragon fire and blood magic carved into its forging, but not every Valyrian steel sword gleamed red. Longclaw shimmered like silver under the moonlight when the king let him hold it on the ship to Eastwatch. Gendry thought he might have seen white or blue there as well, but it was still unlike anything he had ever seen before. 

“Steel isn’t like to make itself if you keep staring at it,” he heard Emry say from the forge. “Or should I tell the king how proud you were with how much you pretended to do today?” 

Gendry smiled. “You can tell the king how much I love your company.” 

“Love,” he snorted. “A man in love is not whole until he’s married. Then he’s finished. Though I think I’ve done better than my wife. Making glass weapons is as useful as nipples on a breastplate.”

He laughed. “Ser Jorah Mormont killed a dead bear with one north of the Wall. They work plenty well.”

“Aye,” Emry said. “My wife told me once if I died from the cold, she’d kill me. It’s easy killing things that are already dead.”

“Don’t die on me, Emry,” Gendry told him, after emerging from the storeroom. “This forge would never be the same.”

“You lack imagination.”

He was on his way to the library tower when he spotted Arya sparring with Podrick again, as she had this morning. He would have joined her if not for the task at hand, but the fight was beginning to draw a small crowd, and so he allowed himself a moment to watch.

Podrick leapt to meet her. His longsword was good castled-forged steel, and the young squire made it sing. _They are fighting with real weapons_ , Gendry realized. Of course Arya would talk him into abandoning a dulled sword, and just as Brienne had agreed to train with her, Podrick could not deny the request. He had never seen a real fight, and probably itched to find the next best.

His first cut was low, and Arya deflected it with Needle. His second nearly caught her shoulder before she spun away, answering with a sidearm blow of her sword that split his leather armor open. Blood trickled through, but Podrick pressed on. His longsword moved to hammer at her thigh, once, twice, thrice, but to no avail. _The boy is quick_ , Gendry thought. She smashed her fist into Podrick’s face and sent him staggering back. Arya raised her sword and put all her weight behind the cut, to slash the boy from neck to groin, but he spun away. Needle cut through air, and just as she turned around, the young squire rammed his foot into her stomach and sent her to the ground. Podrick cast down his blade. Though it would never hit her, Arya caught it in an iron fist. The leather of her gloves ripped and she grunted, but despite the pain, she stood to her feet and held on. “I’m quick as well,” she said as she ripped the sword from the squire’s hand and flung it to the side.

Podrick’s eyes went wide. “The sword…”

Arya caught him about the jerkin with a bloody fist. “Go and get it,” she said, forcing him backwards and into the snow.

Podrick stood as quick as he could. His eyes were still as wide and white as hen’s eggs. “My lady, you’re bleeding.”

She just smiled. “It was my idea.” _A stupid one,_ Gendry thought. “You’re getting better, Podrick. Lady Brienne will be impressed when she returns.” Arya reached for Needle on the ground and slipped it back into her belt, mentioning the maester before stepping out from the yard. Podrick still stood there, recovering, wiping her blood from his sword. 

Gendry decided he would discuss this with her later, and had forgotten where he was going to begin with. He spent the rest of the day in the forge, thinking about Valyrian steel, hammering away at different weapons, mending armor and sharpening swords. Even their music was not enough to dull his mind. Gendry had opted to relinquish dinner and overlook supper, to which his stomach growled in protest. The castle cook was less than willing to offer him leftovers when he stepped into the kitchens.

“Those are for the hounds,” he said. “Not men.”

“I met a woman once who told me all men were dogs,” Gendry said back. It was only half a lie, but the game of faces had taught him a few things, and it made the other man laugh. He left with a belly full of mead stew and bread, and wagered a blood sausage for Ghost prowling outside the library tower. The direwolf licked at his fingers after, and Gendry scratched him behind the ears. Small wonder he never feared the beast when there was a tender spot for wolves in his heart. He thought of Arya.

.:. 

She was peeling away the old linen bandages when she heard him come through the door. Arya did not turn to look from the table, though her eyes drifted to the bundle of herbs she set aside in a small leather bag. Her palm stung when the linens pulled the scabs away, and fresh blood seeped through the wounds. Arya did not flinch. What the Waif had done to her above the canal had been far worse.

“That was a stupid idea,” Gendry said.

She pressed a clean cloth to her hand and allowed the blood to soak. _He was there, he saw_. “I needed to find a way into the maester’s stockroom,” she said in a quiet voice.

“And so you started a fight,” Gendry took the seat beside her and reached for her hand. She let him look at it, and then she let him apply the salve she had set aside. His fingers were gentle, wary of causing pain, but it was nothing. “You could have just gone to see Maester Wolkan.” 

Arya almost frowned. “I know.”

“Then why didn’t you?” 

She had not thought of how to tell him. _I don’t have to say anything,_ Arya considered once, _he need not ever know,_ but that had twisted something unpleasant inside her. _He might know better_ , she thought another time, _he has seen the army of the dead._ Gendry had known worse things than a bastard’s life, yet he had always wanted a family. “My sister has eyes everywhere, and he is loyal to her,” she said. “If I go in there at all, Sansa will know. If I ask the maester for moon tea, he will tell her.”

“Moon tea?” He reached for the fresh linen bandage on the table.

 _He is as sweet as he is naïve._ A man, but still a maiden. “It keeps my belly flat.”

It took a moment for Gendry to come around. He looked up at her when he realized it, and had the nerve to grin. “It’s only been a week.” 

She would not allow the wonder to show on her face. “Your father was notorious for breeding bastards,” Arya said bluntly. “Besides, it’s not the right time. Winter is here, and we have yet to marry.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Gendry laughed softly. She had not expected him to take it well. Then again, she had not known what to expect at all. He tied the end of the linen above her wrist, and held on to her hand. “I hope it’s a girl, our first one.”

Arya furrowed her brows. “Why?”

“Girls take care of their papas when their papas grow old. Boys just go off to fight in someone else’s wars.” 

 _You think soldiers get ravens with news from home?_ Something tugged at her. Arya had been on her way to King’s Landing when she fell upon a group of Lannister soldiers headed for the Twins. The sang of a woman’s love, and a longing for home. She still remembered that song. The one with red hair, Symon, had taught her the words. _Strange_ , Arya thought, _how it befits us now_. “Who told you that?”

“My mum.”

She smiled, ever slightly. “What was she like?”

Gendry looked away, musing. “She worked in a tavern…had yellow hair. She’d sing to me sometimes.” 

“Remember the way she sang, the sound of her voice,” Arya told him. _I remember mine._ “So long as you do that, part of her will always be alive in you.”

_He rode through the streets of the city,_

_down from his hill on high,_

_O’er the winds and the steps and the cobbles,_

_he rode to a woman’s sigh._

_For she was his secret treasure,_

_she was his shame and bliss._

_And a chain and a keep are nothing,_

_compared to a woman’s kiss._

_For hands of gold are always cold but a woman’s hands are warm…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter takes place directly after the last.

He woke before the sun came up, in the same cold room he preferred over his own across the Great Keep.

Gendry was always the first to rise. It was warm and welcoming under the blankets with her back pressed to him. He could hear the soft sounds of her breathing, feel the rise and fall of her chest, the heat of her skin. He pulled his arms away to sit up and brush a hand across his head. The chill off the grey stone walls made his skin crawl. He dressed quickly in the darkness. As he was pulling his tunic overhead, Arya opened her eyes. “It’s early.”

Gendry smiled at her, and moved to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “I have work to do.”

By the time he climbed down the steps from the Keep, he could see that Emry had just arrived at the smithy. He always lit the forge every morning. It was Gendry’s task to find fresh firewood and charcoal. Together they kept stock and counted supplies, though Emry was the one writing in the ledger and giving reports to the king. _I should be doing those things,_ he mused. Gendry would have sought out Ser Davos, but the king’s Hand had greater troubles. _I did without in King’s Landing_ , he told himself instead, _I can do without here,_ until the great gates of Winterfell opened for Samwell of House Tarly, and the king decided Gendry would be the one to rewrite history when he did not know how to hold a quill in his own hand.

The smell from the kitchens drew them out into the predawn gloom, wending through the stables and passing the maester’s rookery. The day looked to be another cold and grey one, with more snow falling by the hour. He pulled his cloak close and hoped there would not be another storm.

When they reached the dining hall, it was alive with laborers and warm from the ovens. They broke their fast on fresh bread and salt fish and washed it down with dark beer. Emry was quiet at this hour. It allowed Gendry time to recall the details of his dream. He could remember a little girl with black hair and blue eyes and the spirit of a wolf, riding on the back of Ghost in the godswood with red leaves falling all around. It was a sweet dream, a dangerous dream, but treasured all the same. _If only the Long Night would last as long._  

Samwell Tarly caught them as they left the hall. The cold scarcely seemed to bother him, though the black on his shoulders meant he would die on that bloody Wall. Emry carried on, saying he would meet them back at the forge.

“I have something for you,” he said, and extended a hand to follow.

“Wildfire, I hope,” Gendry quipped. “Though I do like dragons.”

Sam smiled. “I worked all through the day and night to make it, and very carefully. There should be enough for thirty Valyrian steel longswords, if you succeed on the first try. Given more time, there would have been enough for fifty, but I haven’t slept in two days, and it is past time I returned to Castle Black.”

“You’re leaving?” Gendry looked at him. He was beginning to enjoy Sam the Slayer. 

He nodded. “I’ve left Maester Wolkan instructions on how to make wildfire, should you need more of it. For now, the jars are kept inside a heavy iron vault beneath the Bell Tower so no one will come looking to tip them over.”

Sam fumbled with a set of keys he pulled from his coat, and opened the door behind the stables that descended to the cellars. Gendry saw torches burning in several wall niches as they made their way along the hall. Each storeroom had a solid wooden door closed with an iron padlock the size of his anvil. There were other men down here as well, taking stock, counting provisions, carrying baskets of salt meat and fish and firewood. Before long, Gendry could see his breath frosting in the torch light. It was even colder down here, below the massive walls that guarded Winterfell. He imagined how eighty feet of grey granite would melt from the heat of a green flame, just as he imagined Tobho Mott’s shop when he nearly tripped over a stray cat hiding from the rain. Gendry pulled his cloak closer. “The alchemist’s guild in King’s Landing kept it a secret. You couldn’t get a word from their mouth about anything other than magic and dragons. How did you find out?”

“When Cersei Lannister destroyed the Great Sept of Baelor, Lord Hightower send soldiers to find those men and bring them to Oldtown. How the Conclave weeded the information out, I am not certain, but the only thing that mattered was that the Citadel had it.”

 _Sam the Slayer._ It might have been a jest where he came from, but this man had more courage than the crows at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. “Samwell Tarly, stealer of hearts, family heirlooms, and uncovered secrets of the world.”

They halted before a door made entirely of solid steel. It was no taller than the others, but the newly polished five-spoke metal handle in the center was larger than the padlocks on every other door. Seven thick locking bolts to the left kept it sealed, and two wide ball-bearing hinges secured it to the frame. Sam searched the keys again. They all looked alike to Gendry, yet somehow he managed to find the right one. 

“It’ll be easier for you to open,” he said after. “I’m not so strong.” 

Gendry grasped the handles and pushed with all his strength. Seven times he turned the spoke, and seven bolts withdrew from their keep. When he pulled, the panel opened slowly and the hinges creaked. Inside he saw a vast number of empty shelves. 

Sam seemed to sense his bewilderment. “The maester says this vault has been vacant for years. It once housed Winterfell’s gold and treasures, but when the ironborn sacked the castle and put it to the torch, they stole everything in it. Now the gold is hidden somewhere only the king knows, and the wildfire is here.”

Gendry moved across it, taking in the stone walls around them. It was just as cold in here as it was out there, but the air was dry and heavy with dust. When he reached the end, the ground changed from dirt to wood. His eyes had to adjust to the darkness. There were small jars of pottery lined one after another, molded from roughened clay and pebbles. Each one was sealed with wax and wrapped in leather bands that were bolted to the wall to prevent any tumbles. When he counted, there were thirty of them.

“I won’t bother you with the details of handling it. You seem to know your way around them,” Sam broke the silence.

Gendry dropped to one knee and brushed his hand along one of the jars. Even in the cold, it felt warm. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

He could feel Sam’s smile. “There’s no need for that. Winter is here, and the Long Night is coming. We have work to do.”

“Yes,” he agreed, moving to stand. _Today is the day this begins_. All those sleepless nights spent engrossed in ideas and alterations would be put to the test. “We have work to do.”

Gendry picked the first jar to the left. It was not as heavy as he had expected, but the pebbles along the pottery provided a solid grip. Retrieving it from the vault was one thing, but carrying it to the forge was another. Any chance of reducing risk was one worth taking. He was like to trip over some undead cat, and Sam was his second pair of eyes as he led the way out. Gendry noted the thickness of the door before it was pushed closed. Another seven swings of the handle, one twist of a silver key, and it was sealed until the next visit.

They walked down the hall to climb back up the steps and emerge among a fine sheet of fresh snow. The sun appeared almost in full now, and the rest of Winterfell was rising with it. Horses whinnied at the stableboys who tended them, and accepted apples from their master’s hands. The sweet song of steel filled the courtyard as daybreak training began. Smoke erupted from the chimneys of the Great Keep as servants and maids moved about. Ravens flew from the rookery with messages for all seven kingdoms, and squawked for a taste of raw meat. Even the king walked amongst his people, causing a stir at the junction where the common well remained.

 _They know nothing_ , Gendry thought to himself. _A dragon among wolves_. He could still remember the look on Arya’s face, the sound of her voice when she told him. _Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie. Most of the Targaryens are dead because of a lie. History itself today was written from a single lie._ And how the lies kept growing. Brandon Stark had given his brother one week of solace and comfort upon their return home. One week to remember what family felt like, before this rift drove right through it.

“Jon was never my brother at all,” Arya had said flatly. “That wasn’t even his name.” 

Gods, he had never been so lost for words. 

“It doesn’t matter, though,” she turned to him, and the love she held for Jon Snow shone in her eyes. “My father is still his father. Sansa, Bran, and I…we’re still his siblings. He will always be a Stark. A direwolf with fire in his eyes, like Ghost.”

The rift had been no rift at all, and the true heir to the iron throne remained the same secret it had been before. The northern houses were spiteful enough that their king had bent the knee to a Targaryen queen. _What would they think when he told them the truth? Would it matter when the dead were at their doorstep?_ Gendry wondered what they would tell Daenerys Targaryen as well, when she arrived with her army and two dragons. The woman was his aunt by blood.

Even he was not supposed to know the truth, but Arya had told him anyway. 

“You’re my family, too,” she had said. He could not deny her then, but he also could not deny the self-reproach of keeping their relationship a secret. Arya claimed that her brother and sister would come to understand, but Gendry did not know what was worse. Waiting for the right time to confess their engagement, or the fact that Jon Snow did not yet know his sister was bedding another king’s bastard. If Bran had an inkling to it, he was quiet. Gendry shuddered at the thought. 

“I’m not leaving just yet,” Sam smiled as he closed the door behind them. “Save your farewells for the morrow. I need to speak with Jon.” 

When Gendry arrived at the smithy, he called to Emry from the outside. “I need this forge today. You can have the one out here.”

“You going to make all the damn swords yourself?”

“No, just one.”

The other smith appeared then, wary, eyes flickering to the pot in his hands. “How do you plan on doing that without the supplies from Meereen?” 

“I have an idea.”

“Aye, a right stupid one.”

“You don’t even know what it is,” he shifted the jar in his hands. “Find a bucket and douse the forge. If I bring this in there, it might light.” _The wood and charcoal need to be changed again anyway_.

Emry grumbled but did as bid. “I have three children who like to eat my purse. Think they’ll want to eat _me_ if I come home nice and crisp, and empty-handed.”

“There’s plenty of breastplates still needing leather.”

He groaned again. “I hate doing that.” 

“You hate doing lots of things." 

.:.

The last time he had been this warm was in Tobho Mott’s shop during the long summer. The heat from the wildfire was enough for Gendry to shed his cloak and coat for the same yellow-brown leather jerkin he had left King’s Landing in. How he missed the heat, though, and the comfort of a hammer in his hands when the snow fell heavily outside.

A better part of the morning was spent welding several high-quality steel billets together with salt compounds and wildfire. When it burned red-hot, he hammered lightly at first, evenly all around, brushing off the old salt and debris to add more. _Clang, clang, clang._

Salt, heat, set, heat, weld, forge, check the forge, add charcoal and wood to the forge, repeat. _Four times. No more, no less._ Each took almost one hour. Sweat was beading above his brow and seeping into his linens. Gendry fixed the steel into a vise and gave it a nice twist with the strongest wrench he could find. It took the form of a coil until he forged it back into a rectangular billet. _Clang, clang, clang._

Heat, set, heat, forge, check the forge, add charcoal and wood to the forge, repeat. Gendry hammered until the steel started to take the shape of a rough-forged sword. By then, his throat was as dry as the deserts in Dorne, and his stomach was snarling back. He set the metal aside to cool down and wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck with a linen cloth. Gendry donned his cloak and slipped away from the smithy. In the kitchens, the cooks provided ale and water to take back with him for a few coopers, but he slipped them several more and earned enough bacon to settle the ache in his stomach. 

Though he could not see the sun from behind the clouds and falling snow, the stableboy he asked said it was midday. Fine-tuning the blade itself was going to take another four hours, but with a steady flow of water against a belt grinder and several filers, Gendry managed to sand down the edges close to, but not all the way sharp. The last thing he wanted was for the metal to warp during the most critical hours of forging.

Gendry downed the rest of the ale when it was time to heat treat the steel. He took a deep breath and added more fuel to the forge. In this, every step had to be executed perfectly, or the blade would warp or shatter. It had consumed his every thought in the week spent with Sam. Combining Master Mott’s teachings with the Braavosi technique would prove futile if he failed now. Gendry whispered a prayer and stood before the forge, feeding the wildfire until it burned so hot it near singed his skin. He set the steel inside and waited. A magnet would tell when it was ready to cool on its own, and so he kept a large one nearby. Half hour, check, one hour, check, no pull from the magnet, air cool, repeat. _Five times, then once more._ Gendry placed the sword back into the forge. The last step required an ordinary flame, but that he could not light in the same room as wildfire or the entire smithy might blow. When the time came, he peeked his head outside, briefly taking in the darkness that was beginning to settle over Winterfell, and asked Emry to start the oven. Gendry filled a metal bucket with oil, heated a piece of scrap metal and tossed it inside. There could be no hesitation when he moved to quench the sword. The hot steel hissed angrily. 

Gendry treated it as though it were glass. If he hardened this correctly, the sword would shatter when dropped. He brought it close to look for any sign of the signature Valyrian steel ripples, but when he saw nothing, his heart quickened. _No, it will take more time before you see it_ , he told himself. Gods, he wanted to see it. He wanted this to work.

Placing the sword in the oven as delicately as possible, Gendry threatened Emry with his life if he so much as thought about touching it. The other smith laughed at him, but looked on, intrigued. The temperament process was to be strictly controlled for just over an hour to draw out the hardness and improve the durability and strength. _Even then, I will see nothing_. The bells rang eight times to signal the hour right as he closed the oven door. Gendry smiled to himself, and then his stomach growled. He went back inside to ensure the wildfire would not spread, knowing that nothing could put it out, before locking the door.

The promise of supper drew the smiths out into the gloom of dusk, once again wending through the stables and passing the maester’s rookery. The dining hall was filled with laughter and conversation and wine and wonderful smells. They ate salmon basked with lemon and salt, fermented crab served with sole, and fresh bread topped with butter. It was the second proper meal Gendry had this day, and the second proper conversation he shared with Emry.

“Did you ever once think your master might have been one of them smiths from Qohor?” The other man questioned. “He’s got a fancy name for it, I reckon, though I never heard of no wildfire being used to rework anything.”

Gendry pondered that. “If he was, I never knew. Tobho Mott sold me to the Night’s Watch when I was still an apprentice.”

“You were an apprentice for a long fucking time then. Five years, was it?”

He frowned. “What of it? How long did you serve?”

“Two years,” Emry nodded.

Gendry did not know what to think. After a time, he decided that it did not matter. Tobho Mott was a thousand leagues away, and he was here. When the bells rang nine times, they bid each other farewell and he headed back to the forge alone.

 _Not always alone_ , he thought when Ghost bounded up beside him. Gendry had saved the direwolf a bit of salmon and scratched him behind the ears as he liked. “Would you still love me if I stopped bringing you food?” Ghost nudged at his hand and the smith rubbed his head, smiling.

He pulled the sword out of the oven upon arriving at the forge, and pressed it into the same bucket of oil from earlier. The wildfire was not burning as hot as he had left it, but it was still very much there, keeping the air warm and basking the room in a soft green light. When he looked at the sword, there were still no visible markings, but it made no difference. Gendry prepped the belt grinder with water again, and worked the blade down into its final shape. That took another hour, but when it did not shatter at first touch, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief and held out hope. If the acid would not reveal the detail later, then…

Something brushed along his arms and nearly made him jump from his skin. Gendry whirled around.

“Are you planning on coming to bed?” Arya asked flatly, her hands on his shoulders. “It’s late.”

He was becoming accustomed to reading the subtle undertones in her voice. _She doesn’t sound angry_ , he pondered, before venturing a smile. “Good of you to knock, m’lady.”

She ignored that and moved to stand before the forge, observing the wildfire and raising a hand to ghost above it. “You’re working on Valyrian steel.”

Gendry pressed the blade back against the belt. “We’ll see soon. If this isn’t it, then I don’t know what it is.” 

“Have you been here since dawn?”

“Longer.” _A few more grinds should do it nice._ “I’m almost done.”

Arya moved away from the forge to stand beside him and watch. When it was done, Gendry looked at it again. Steam rose from the blade as he held it against the firelight to check for any misshapen or unaligned edges. They were still dulled, but ultimately straight. He set it down against the anvil and moved around Arya to find the acid powder Emry had put aside for him yesterday. This was the exciting part, but also the thing that terrified him the most. If he had forged Valyrian steel, the acid would reveal the pattern by etching out more hard layers of steel than soft. If not, it would look just as it did now, and the entire day he spent welding, forging, and shaping would be for nothing. Gendry hadn’t the slightest clue what kind of steel he would have created in its stead. His stomach roiled at the thought.

Into the mold they often used to form longswords, he poured a mixture of three parts water and one part acid. Against the stone framework, it appeared black in color and shared the same thick consistency as oil. Gendry gently placed his sword into it and breathed deeply.

Arya must have sensed his trepidation. She stepped beside him and weaved her fingers into his, squeezing gently. “You can always try again, if this doesn’t work.”

“I know,” he said, with a heavy heart. In truth, he would try again, but not until the supplies arrived from Meereen. Today was merely an idea grounded on evidence that had a slim chance of working, but he had to hold out hope. He had to try _something_.

Arya’s presence alone was enough to calm his racing heart, though Gendry could not quite bring his eyes to face her. There were bubbles starting to form at the surface. It was impossible to see anything, but all they needed was a few minutes. The gods saw to test his patience multiple times today, but when his mind was focused on a task he felt deeply passionate about, patience was nothing. He would forget to eat, to sleep, to breathe. He was holding his breath now.

“If you faint, I’m not catching you,” Arya said passively, and he managed a smile.

Gendry released her hand and reached for the tongs left atop the anvil. With a single grasp of the hilt, he pulled the blade from the acid and it shimmered like a thousand glittering stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has read up on the history of Damascus steel, it sounds like the inspiration behind Valyrian steel in almost every way. Authentic pieces are very expensive and difficult to make, and involve too much physics and chemistry for my brain to handle. The very simplified written version here that Gendry figured out behind the scenes is just what I found in research. 
> 
> Suppose it is safe to say that the first chapter began when everyone returned from King’s Landing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter eggs for Halloween.

“It’s very light,” Arya said, admiring the blade in her hands. The edges were still dulled, but Gendry had cleared the acid from its surface so she could hold it. The rippling array of metal was exceedingly striking, a sea of black and grey waves like flowing water. She thought of her own blade, currently in the smith’s hands, and how similar they seemed. The catspaw dagger had to be more than several hundred years old, but its condition was as immaculate as the newly-forged steel in her hands. According to Bran, Littlefinger had called it a trifle thing. She could still recall the overall satisfying feeling of knowing he was doomed, and the sense of duty she felt at taking his life. _Trifle, like him_.

“It’s light as it needs to be,” Gendry mused. His fingers traced the undulations of her blade. “I can’t believe this worked.”

“I can.”

He looked up at her, surprised. “It shouldn’t have.”

“You’re a skilled smith that learned from an admirable teacher. Of course it worked.”

“This would never have happened if Sam hadn’t found the smith’s experiments.”

“Perhaps, but if you had taken every word of it for true, I wouldn’t be holding Valyrian steel in my hands right now,” she said, offering it back by the makeshift hilt. “You changed history, Gendry. You should be proud.”

He smiled softly at that, and reached to exchange blades in silence. It was difficult for him to accept this kind of gratitude. He was a man of humble beginnings and little recognition, seeking nothing in life but purpose and a sense of belonging. Arya wanted him to see the importance of his accomplishments, as he often sought to recognize hers. He deserved that much from her. “Jon will be proud. I imagine your reward will be fruitful.”

“There’s only one reward I have in mind.”

“Is that so?” Arya asked with a small fond smile.

“For now,” he averted, tossing something small her way. Arya caught it with deft hands. “When was the last time you sharpened your Needle?” 

Gendry had taken to striking the hilt from one fine sword with a block of wood and three swings of his hammer. Arya had spent a great deal of time sharpening her own sword in silence, but as the smith grew close to finishing, his mind grew curious. "When you were in Braavos playing some mummer, did you have any scenes?"

"You wouldn't like them."

"Why? Were you a witch or something?"

"A whore, with her very own rape."

When Arya looked up and saw his incredulous expression, it almost broke her composure. She enjoyed provoking him, watching him squirm. Perhaps it was a cruel thing to do, but Gendry was light-heartened and not so quick to temper these days. She had a sense as to why. "The dwarf who did it had a cock as thick as my arm, big enough to be seen from the highest balcony. The dyer did a terrible job with the leather. It was a hideous thing."

She could not see his eyes, but the heavy air and his lingering silence gave his feelings away. _He wears them on his sleeve_ , she thought, turning back to Needle. The whetstone was still in her hands. Arya brought it down her skinny blade. 

Suddenly, the bull spoke. "Are we playing another game?" 

"If we were, you wouldn’t be the one asking questions," she answered flatly, "but it was fun watching you wrestle with that notion.” 

Gendry considered that. “How does a highborn girl like you end up playing a whore in a mummer’s farce?” 

“Before the faces, there was once a girl named Mercy,” she explained. “She had a pretty smile, and a certain grace. She liked to sing in the language of the Braavosi and spoke little of the Common Tongue. Mercy enjoyed pretending to be other people.” 

“ _Arya Stark_ likes pretending to be other people,” he corrected. “Why Mercy? Is that a common name in Braavos?”

On the ship she took across the Narrow Sea, the captain had told her the story of a girl named Mercedene, who was born to a farmer just outside the kingswood. It was a grim and sorrowful tale, although Arya had taken a liking to her name and character. It was the inspiration behind her second face back in Braavos. “It was better than Arry, or Weasel, or Nan,” she said instead. 

.:.

“I don’t understand,” he confessed, dipping below a low-hanging branch. “How can the Many-Faced god be real when the Lord of Light brought your brother back? Lord Beric, too.”

Arya kept her hands bound behind her back, but those steel-grey eyes drifted among the godswood, and he knew she was searching for an answer. Arya stepped over a thick brown root that pushed up from beneath the ground. “He’s called the Many-Faced god for a reason. In the far east, he is the Lion of Night, who fathered the world’s first emperor on the maiden made of light. In Lys, he is the Weeping Lady who sheds her tears for the living soon to die. In Qohor, he is the Black Goat, and feeds on blood offerings.” 

 _Qohor_ , Gendry mused. Tobho Mott had sailed across the Narrow Sea from such a city, seeking work as a smith for a foreign king. If he had worshipped the Black Goat, it was no wonder the man always donned a black velvet coat and dark leathers, and fashioned the doors to his home in the deepest shade of ebony.

The weirwood tree appeared in front of them, its bony limbs spread wide. Fallen leaves lay about the wide white trunk in drifts of red and brown. Two eyes stared back at them, red as rubies with sap trickling down pale hard skin. Gendry watched Arya as they approached it, a breeze dancing through her dark brown hair. 

“In the faith of the Seven, he is the Stranger who guides men from this life to the next. Few seek his favor, or at least a few realize that they do. In the iron islands, he is the Drowned god, calling men down to his watery hall. In the north, he is one of the old gods staring out from the heart trees and the snow,” Arya reached out and touched the tree, her fingers brushing over sap and bark alike. An unfamiliar impulse had Gendry drawing a single hand to the tree as well. 

“In Volantis, he is the Lord of Light, whose followers feed men to the flames to beg his favor. In the House of Black and White, he is all of them and none of them. He is the Many-Faced god, and wherever you turn, he’s there. People come from every corner of the world to know him, to beg his favor and seek his gift for themselves if their lives have grown difficult, or for others who are making it so. It’s all the same to the Many-Faced god. _Valar dohaeris_ —all men must serve—the poor and the rich. _Valar morghulis_ —all men must die—good and evil.”

“So,” Gendry knit his brows together. “You’re saying that…we all pray to the same god? That the Lord of Light, the Stranger, the Black Goat…they’re all the same god?”

Arya nodded. “In Westeros, there are more, but it is the Many-Faced god who shows his power. He gives life through people like Thoros and the red woman, and grants the gift of death through people like me.” 

He looked at her sadly, the revelation of those words moving him more than the gods. “You are not a weapon, Arya.”

She released her hand from the trunk and stared at the red sap that stuck to her fingers, as though it were blood. “You don’t know half of the things I’ve done.”

His hand fell to his side. “Does it matter? All of us have done things we’re not proud of.” 

“And if I told you I was proud of the things I’ve done? The people I’ve killed?”

“You have that list for a reason. It’s not my place to question those on it.” Instinct took over, and he cracked a grin to lighten the darkness in her expression. “Unless you add me to it, then I might ask a few questions.” 

She did not look up at him, but Gendry saw the slight upturn of her lips. “I wouldn’t do that to you, not yet.”

“You honor me.”

Arya turned to the black pool beside the weirwood tree and knelt before it. She dipped her hands into the water to cleanse them. Moonlight reflected from the ripples that flowed around her wrists. The pond gave off no mists, and so he knew the water was freezing cold, but it scarcely seemed to touch her. His blood froze quick, but Arya was of the north.

“All this talk of the Many-Faced god,” he began, remembering their conversation from earlier, “and still, you won’t show me how you change your face…or that you can.” 

She stilled for a moment, before rising slowly. “Nor will I.”

.:.

Jon set the scroll in his hands on the table, earning a look from Sansa across the room.

“What is it?” she asked, moving to stand before him. The Lady of Winterfell, a head taller than her king, with fierce blue eyes that made him feel just a bit less than her equal at times. She never meant for it to appear as such, but Jon thought that perhaps he deserved it for bending the knee to Daenerys Targaryen without seeking her consent first. And for going north of the Wall without informing her. And for almost dying there, again, without telling her.

He needed to tell her this, that was certain. Jon was a military man, not a politician. “It seems that our proposition for the Stormlands has been accepted.” 

Sansa exchanged a look with him before taking the scroll and reading it herself.

When the first of many letters had arrived two days after his return to Winterfell, Jon had been in his solar—no, his _father’s_ solar—with Sansa and his Hand, Ser Davos. Maester Wolkan had brought the scroll himself. It was one of the longest they ever received, and it was a problem.

“What has become of Stannis Baratheon’s men, now that the Tyrells are gone and the castle is no longer under siege?” The king had asked the old maester, holding out a hand for the news.

“Lord Stannis appointed Ser Gilbert Farring as the new castellan before he perished. Lord Elwood Meadows is his second-in-command, and Ser Lomas Estermont leads their forces, but...Edric Storm has sailed across the Narrow Sea, Your Grace.” 

Jon narrowed his eyes at the scroll when he read. “I do not know who Edric Storm—”

A pause.  

“What is it?” Sansa pressed. 

“They would name him Lord of Storm’s End,” he told her. "He is Robert Baratheon's bastard son.” 

 _Would_ had to mean it was his hand they sought to legitimize this boy, after the queen’s refusal. She had ordered all of Robert’s bastard children dead shortly after Eddard Stark’s execution, but a king named Snow might have compassion. Ser Gilbert openly expressed a desire to save an ancient bloodline from extinction, but Jon thought of the raven Sansa had received the night before.

Jaime Lannister had deserted his sister and travelled alongside Brienne of Tarth, refusing to march with Daenerys Targaryen, but their destinations were all the same. It left Cersei vulnerable, even with the Golden Company sailing towards Westeros. The last of the Lannisters had abandoned her. Perhaps her vassals would do her the same kindness.

Another thought irked him yet. _Edric Storm came across the Narrow Sea. Why was he there at all?_ If Cersei knew of him, he may have fled to escape her knives, but Jon wondered if there could have been another reason. _Ser Davos helped Gendry escape Melisandre._ If Edric Storm had been at Dragonstone with Stannis, she may have wanted to leech him for his blood first. How she found Gendry was beyond Jon’s understanding, but the red woman brought him back for the same purpose. Lord Stannis would have kept guards on Davos, but the man was a seasoned smuggler, and managed to help Gendry escape all the same. 

“And cannot inherit his father’s lands or titles,” Sansa curtly added. 

The onion knight thought otherwise. “Stannis Baratheon never named a successor. By rights, Storm’s End belongs to Cersei Lannister.”

“What right, when all her children were born of incest?” she turned to her brother. “What else does the letter say? He must want something in return.”

“If I give Edric Storm a true name, his banners will rally behind the Baratheon name and march north to fight the dead.”  

“Why would they do that? If they leave the castle, Cersei will send the Golden Company to take it as their base of operations. They _can’t_ leave.” 

The king leaned back in his chair, musing. “How many men does Ser Farring command?”

“Two-hundred, Your Grace,” Wolkan confessed. “Though Storm’s End has never been seized. Mace Tyrell brought more than eighteen-thousand men before abandoning the castle twice over." 

“What of the sea?” 

“The Redwyne’s have a fleet,” Ser Davos offered, “but most like they left with Lord Tyrell."   

“Given time, the Tyrells would have taken it anyway,” Sansa glowered. “How long before thousands of men lay siege to Storm’s End again? Is it protection they want? The dead are coming, and they know it. Surely Jaime Lannister abandoning his sister to fight the Night King was enough to convince these southern lords that the threat is real.”

However, Ser Farring was entirely firm on Edric Storm ending the dispute in the Stormlands. If the boy had a true name, he could rally those vassals together and convince the disheartened Lannister armies, who were beginning to lose faith in their queen, to travel north with him. The same two hundred men who defended the castle against Mace Tyrell would remain, and Edric Storm would march the rest to Winterfell. A legitimization in exchange for an army. It served only to further Jon’s misgivings.

He continued to correspond with Ser Farring despite this, and as each letter came and went, it was revealed that Edric had already begun to assemble troops, and offered to send them north on another condition: they join houses through Sansa. 

“I will not allow him to force my sister into marriage,” Jon rasped to his Hand in private. “She has been through enough.”

“I believe that is for the Lady to decide,” Davos said in exchange.

And much to his sorrow, when confronted with the evidence, Sansa said that she would consider it entirely political. Jon reminded her of his vow to protect her, but she just smiled at him and claimed she did not need protection. It was the Stormlands they needed, and there was not a soul in the world who would force themselves on her again.

The night following, Jon looked for every excuse he could think of to weave her out of the situation. He needed to discuss this with someone he trusted, and so the king made haste for an old friend. In the library, he found Sam reading with Gendry. The books spread across the table had everything to do with wildfire and Valyrian steel, although Jon took one look at the smith and realized there was indeed another answer to his problem. Jon quickly excused himself and hurried back to the Great Keep where Sansa sat in her room, reading several scrolls. 

He almost burst through the door. “Storm’s End is not Edric’s to claim,” he told her. “Robert Baratheon has another son, and older by three years. A man you wouldn’t have to marry because he is already loyal to House Stark.”

Stannis’ men were honorable men, loyal and honest to the houses they pledged their allegiance. If Gendry was older than Edric, honor would gift him the inheritable position instead. Yet still, Edric was born and raised in the Stormlands. He knew it far better than anyone else in the north.

 _Call it a conspiracy,_ Jon thought to himself. _We must try, at least._

Sansa had encouraged him to write back to Ser Farring with an offer of Gendry instead, or there would be no legitimization at all. It was a compromise that benefit both the north and the south, in her eyes. If Edric Storm wanted his true name, and because it would please the King in the North, he would have to surrender Storm's End to Gendry and forego any marriage demands of Sansa. That would leave the Stormlands with two men to carry on the Baratheon name, and it was more than they deserved. 

Or they could decline, and when the northern threat was dealt with, they would honor the Stormlands in much a similar fashion to Cersei Lannister.

Now, as Sansa read their newest response one fortnight following, a small smile crept to her lips. “Ser Farring tells of how difficult it was to force Edric and his pride to step down, but after much convincing from many advisors, he did. _For the sake of saving a bloodline and earning a king’s loyalty,_ ” she looked up at him. “The Stormlands are ours.”

.:.

“You want to discuss us _now_ ,” Arya said, displeased. She was in little mood to deliberate such a matter when he had successfully forged a Valyrian steel weapon the night before. That subject carried far more importance to her than the revelation of their relationship to Jon. “Gendry, you should have shown my brother that sword hours ago. Why are we talking about us instead?”

“Because,” the smith sighed, bringing the whetstone down harder. He was shaping the newest dragonglass dagger for another novice. “I don’t know if asking for your hand after showing him that sword will do us any good.”

Arya crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him from across the smithy. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know my brother. He will come to terms with it eventually.”

“The king's been through enough as it is, telling his bannermen he's no wolf,” Gendry reasoned.

“He is,” she defended curtly. "Jon might not be my father's son, but he has his blood." 

"Knights and lordlings, all they ever care about is blood. It's his father they'll hound him for. Everyone knows the Mad King burned your lord grandfather alive and made your uncle watch before getting his share."

She could not deny it. Placing trust in the Targaryens was a very dangerous move. When the raven from Dragonstone had arrived with invitations from Daenerys, Sansa told her it had caused an uproar. Even little Lyanna Mormont advocated for the king to send an envoy in his place, and she was only a girl of ten. "The queen asked for forgiveness on behalf of her entire house. My brother accepted."

"He did, but…what was it you said to that Frey girl?”

Arya answered him, though not without hesitation. "The North remembers." 

“That’s it,” he nodded. "Loyal to their own. They won’t trust someone who  _burned_  their own.” 

"Jon didn’t burn anyone," she frowned. "Aerys did.”

“Yeah, that’s true. He’s still got dragon’s blood, and the north remembers what dragons do to wolves."  

Arya had half a mind to shove him for saying something so stupidly bold. "You watch that. My brother and sister won back the north from the Boltons. Sixteen-thousand men named him king, and without Sansa, twenty-thousand more would be happy to find good reason to go home.”

“And still, they turned their backs on their king when _he_ didn’t come home," Gendry said, stubborn as ever. "That was before all this.”

Arya looked at him a long while, studying his features as she strode across the forge to face him. Her voice was dangerously low. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours,” he affirmed, and when he met her eyes, they were telling the truth. “I’m honest, it’s the world that's cruel. You know that better than anyone else.”

She could have taken that to insult. He claimed to be on her side, but every word sounded more and more like a test.

“All I'm saying is…the king's got a lot on his mind. It’s not right to tell him about us when he's got the north to think about."

“What are you so afraid of? Do you truly think my brother would harm you, or distrust you? Jon would understand. He knows I can protect myself, and that if anyone tried to get in my way, they would be as good as dead.”

“The northern lords will take it to insult if a noble lady weds a lowborn bastard with nothing to his name. That’s another problem to set on your brother’s shoulders.”

“You didn’t hesitate to fight for my family when Ser Davos found you,” she pointed out. “You didn’t hesitate to tell Jon who you were, and you didn’t hesitate to run alongside him beyond the Wall. To my brother, your loyalty is certain. To me, it seems rather flexible. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the Brotherhood.”

Gendry looked fierce when he scowled. “Arya—”

"I know why you joined Jon. It was honorable, noble even. And I know why you chose to stay behind in King’s Landing. We travelled together for two years, but the moment the Brotherhood came whispering about the Lord of Light and saving the world, you  _left_. Some family, they were…sold you off within the week. You could have gone with me.”

“And be  _your_ family?” he set the dagger down angrily. “I'm too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high.”

"Then why did you ask me to marry you?” A cold wind stirred her dark hair. “If you’re so lowborn, why bother?”

Gendry held her glare fiercely, but all of a sudden he went quiet. “I asked for your hand because there’s no time left for anything, because I know you don’t care about following tradition, and because I love you,” he looked away. “Thought you did, too.”

She was taken aback but the sincerity in his voice. “I do.”

“Not as much as you think, or you wouldn’t be standing there asking where my loyalties are.”

 _Sometimes anger makes people do unfortunate things._  

Gendry shook his head and turned to her. “I do regret not going with you. Trusting the Brotherhood was a mistake, but north of the Wall, we settled things. They earned my forgiveness. It’s not easy for you and I can understand that, but what I don’t understand is why you’re still angry. I’ve lost people too, Arya. We were children just trying to survive.”

“You don’t know what loss is,” she said, curling her hands into fists, determined to make him understand. "My father was the first to die. Syrio was the second, then Yoren and Lommy. I saw the Freys march my dead brother across the Twins with his direwolf’s head sewn to his body. They cut my mother’s throat to the bone and threw her naked into the river. When the Faceless men came for me in Braavos, they killed the only woman I trusted, and she was just trying to help. They almost got me, too.” There were tears threatening to well in her eyes, but Arya pushed them away, holding his gaze, allowing the anguish to fuel her. “Jaqen H’ghar was the first to leave, then Hot Pie, then you. Everyone I had cared for either died, or left me. Everyone—” she slammed her fists into his chest, “fucking except for you."

Gendry faltered, but her pain was still very much there. 

“So imagine how I felt when you wanted to leave, too. We were safe together. We had each other, and then we didn’t.”

Across the smithy, something scraped against wood and both of them turned to the sound. Jon and Sansa were standing at the entrance, shock plastered across their faces. Longclaw’s pommel was pressed up against the door, and the parchment in the king’s hands threatened to slip through his fingers. 


	6. Chapter 6

Arya wanted nothing more than to cave Gendry’s own chest in with her fists. She was angry, hurt, and upset. Despite all these years, after every hardship they had been through, he was the same stubborn, bull-headed bastard boy from Hollow Hill. He could fight the dead and slay a company of goldcloaks, but when it came to seeing reason, he was still stupid. Arya closed her eyes and sighed. _All of this over one sword._ She wondered when she had gotten so careless. “How much of that did you hear?”

The looks about their faces were evidence enough. For what it was worth, Jon did not seem angry. Disappointed, but not angry. She could work with disappointed. She had done so before. It was her sister’s face that intrigued Arya the most. Sansa was calm and collected, as though she had anticipated this kind of defiance without Littlefinger to whisper it in her ear.

Jon let the door close quietly behind him. “You’re engaged?”

_Seven hells._ “Yes. I’m sorry. I would have told you sooner, but...”

Sansa just looked at her. “We didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

“How long has this been going on?” her brother asked. “And tell it true.” 

Lies would only make things worse. “Three moons.”

“Three moons,” he breathed. “Arya…forgive me, but I don’t know what to say. You always loathed the idea of marriage. Even when Lord and Lady Stark mentioned it, you fled. What changed?” 

“They would have given me to some fool who never held his own before.” She knew what became of Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey and Tyrion and Ramsay. She remembered how harshly King Robert spoke to his wife, and how Walder Frey took advantage of his. Forging the kind of alliance her parents had, and with a stranger, was a rare enough thing. Arya had never been willing to take such a risk. She knew that women did not willingly decide to be traded like goods. They were expendable, nothing but broodmares to carry on the family legacy. Arya knew better than to think wars were settled in the marriage bed. It had not stopped Ramsay from killing her little brother, Rickon. _He was only six, and he didn’t deserve to die._ “It took my mother less than a day to arrange a marriage with Elmar Frey, and for a bridge. Gendry is different. I chose him. He wasn’t born into a noble house, and he isn’t some lord looking for a little girl to give him heirs and take to bed whenever he pleases. That’s not me.”

Jon looked pensive. “Then why didn’t you tell us? Why the secrecy?”

In truth, she had done so out of respect for Gendry, who wanted a good enough reason to make her brother believe he was capable and not disposable. That she was not marrying someone who couldn’t protect or provide for her, if need be. Arya was more than adept at doing so on her own, but Gendry was stubborn.

Sansa suddenly paled. “You’re not…with child, are you?”

The question took her by such surprise that Arya could not respond for the few seconds it took Jon to lash out at Gendry. He gave him a look that she never wanted to see again, and in two short strides, grabbed him by the jerkin with an unyielding fist and yanked him close. “I put my trust in you beyond the Wall! Are you so eager to lose that trust by going behind my back with my sister?”

He was always quick to protect her. Their father had been the same, but Gendry had not harmed her, or wished to. He was just stupid, and Arya had no choice but to defend him, else her brother would mount his head atop the crenellations for all the North to see. “Leave him be,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m not with child, and Gendry never touched me, not unless I let him. We’re engaged because he asked, and I said yes.”

“Were you planning to elope? To run, as my mother had, with someone she was never meant to wed?”

“No.” Eddard Stark had been gone for years, yet still she was being compared to her aunt Lyanna. The notion had satisfied her once, when Arya was a young girl dreaming of holding her own sword. “Gendry isn’t trying to steal me away.”

“Aye, that’s good to know.” Jon was not pleased, but he released Gendry with a firm shove and a hard glare. He clenched his fist where the letter was. “Fine. You have your reasons for keeping quiet. I can accept that.”

“We have just as much to explain as they do,” Sansa told him. Arya could sense some hidden meaning behind those words. “There is something you both should know. Part of this is our doing, and yet there is nothing we can do to stop it. Arrangements have been made on Gendry’s behalf. If the circumstances of your engagement are true, they may have…complicated things.” 

Arya crossed her arms over her chest, as though her mood could not be further dampened. Sansa had a knack for it. “What are you talking about?” 

“Jon and I have been corresponding with Ser Gilbert Farring in the Stormlands.” She took the scroll from him and handed it to Gendry. “You have a brother in the south, recently returned from Lys. He is another one of Robert Baratheon’s bastard sons.”

Gendry took the letter, despite that he could not read. It was considered ill-mannered to refuse a lady’s offer. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but I can’t read the words. My father sired half a hundred bastards, but I’ve no living kin. Joffrey and the queen killed them all when we left King’s Landing.” 

“Not this one,” Sansa rebutted. “His name is Edric Storm. Ser Davos had him escorted across the Narrow Sea when he caught wind of Lady Melisandre’s plans to burn him alive. I believe he has done much of the same for you, and you share his loyalty to our king. The North grows stronger each passing day, but we still need allies. Loyal houses from the east, the west, and the south. Our armies put together could overthrow the Crown if we survive to the see the spring. We could have Cersei Lannister surrounded within a moon.”

“Then why would you need me, m’lady? I’m just a smith.”

“Ser Gilbert strongly wishes for an heir to the Stormlands. We agreed upon a compromise that satisfies both our houses. You have the late King Robert’s blood in your veins, and your age succeeds Edric by three years.”

The news stunned Arya and Gendry both. She could scarcely believe the words that came pouring from her sister’s mouth. She tried not to feel slighted by the secrecy, knowing that she had done the same, and yet their diplomatic decision to leave them entirely out of this made her angrier. “You would make him a lord, send him to a foreign land with people we don’t know, all without so much as a warning? That’s low, Sansa, even for you.”

“Gendry isn’t going anywhere,” she affirmed. “Not yet, at least.”

“You are our best chance at bringing another army north,” Jon said to him, reluctantly. “We need support from southern houses. Storm’s End is all we have with Cersei controlling the Westernlands and the Reach. She has no desire to help us fight against the Great War, and aside from Daenerys Targaryen, we have no other choice.”

“We have dragons,” Arya pointed out, “and a Dothraki hoard marching towards Winterfell.” 

“One dragon has already been lost to the Others, and the Dothraki are a summer folk. They thrive on warmth and sun and have never known winter. It will be long before they can fight. We may lose more of them to the cold than we know.”

“If Cersei controls as much of the south as you say, then how do you plan on bringing Storm’s End to Winterfell without starting another war?”

“We can send ships from White Harbor to transport their army north. Edric Storm is more than capable of command, to hear Ser Gilbert say. He knows the land and he knows its people.” 

“He’s a boy we never met,” Arya frowned. “A brother Gendry _doesn’t_ know.”

“But an ally, all the same,” Sansa said to them both. “You may not believe it, but Edric has agreed to work with us. Lord Manderly can begin preparations in a few days. We only need give him word and he will arrange passage south for Gendry, as well as galleys to bring his fighting men here.”

Arya wondered if the merman lord knew of these plans as well, or if her sister was simply stating a fact. _There’s something she is not telling me._ “What did you offer him that makes you so certain he won’t turn his back on us given the chance? No bastard son in his right mind would give up a castle and its people because he has an older brother he didn’t know existed until now.”

“We offered him a true name,” Sansa told her, “but only if Storm’s End takes Gendry instead, or there would be no legitimization at all. It is a compromise that benefits both of our countries, given that Cersei will never give him what he wants. Only a monarch can issue the documents.”

“He also wanted Sansa’s hand in marriage.” Jon made an effort to point out. “I told him to forego those demands. A legitimization leaves the Stormlands with two men to carry on the Baratheon name and its more than they deserve.” 

In an instant, Arya knew what her sister had meant when she said the engagement to Gendry would be a complication. He would no longer be a blacksmith in Winterfell, but Lord of Storm’s End and all the vassals that surrounded it. He would have to leave south following the war, if they somehow managed to survive, and only travel north again when the appropriate occasion arose. _If I marry him, that means I will have to leave, too_. Arya’s heart sank.

Sansa saw it and sent her sister an apologetic look. She knew northerners did not fare well down south, and yet they learned to endure.

“How many men?” Gendry asked the king. “If I’m going to do this, how many men am I bringing back?” 

“Ten-thousand,” Jon told him, “maybe more.”

Gendry sighed slowly, taking a moment to consider. “I’ll do it,” he said, just as Arya knew he would. _It isn’t like he has a choice._ “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

She looked down at her hands, to the one she had used to grasp Podrick’s sword. It no longer hurt when she used it. There was no pain, no sting, no bite of flesh against steel. When she had pulled away the last of the linen bandages, there was no blood. Her hand might have healed and scarred, but within her, a new wound opened. Arya knew she should not dwell on it, that the chances of them making it out alive from the war were next to none, but it lingered.

Sansa folded her hands beneath her chest and turned to Jon. “We should send a guide with him, at least until he reaches Storm’s End.”

“Ser Davos and Sam are needed here,” he said. “Who else can we trust with this but them?”

“Sandor Clegane.”

Arya glanced between her siblings, at their faces stern and serious, and wondered if they had lost their senses. _The last place the Hound should be sent is south._ “Sandor Clegane,” she said flatly. “He will hunt down his brother the moment you give him leave.”

“Which is precisely why he will go,” Sansa said stoutly. “Maybe he can rid the world of Cersei Lannister too, and spare us all another useless war.”

_Gregor Clegane, Cersei Lannister._ Their names sounded sweet as a song in her mind, and how she longed to see their traitor’s blood trickle down Needle’s fine edge. _Another gift for the Many-Faced god_. Arya did not need to think the rest through. She grasped the hilt of her sword and said, “Then you will send me as well. He cannot kill the queen and her guard both. Give me a turn of the moon and the south will be yours.” 

Jon’s eyes widened, and even Sansa seemed surprised. “Arya,” her brother warned. “Regicide is an act punishable by execution, and Cersei will not hesitate to send us your head on a spike.”

“Faceless men are swift and silent, and you would know that the price has been paid.” A queen’s dragon for the queen herself, if not the whispers of the people. _They don’t know it, but the Many-Faced god hears their prayers all the same._

Sansa was not pleased. “You mean to go with Gendry.”

“I said nothing about Gendry.” If that hurt him, she did not know. Arya kept her gaze forward.

“What price?” Jon wondered, his tone indignant. “Your personal vendetta does not amount as payment.”

“We never give the gift to please ourselves. Nor do we choose the ones we kill.”

“The Mountain will kill _you_ before you could ever reach Cersei.” Sansa said it as though she could make her see reason. “One misstep, one wrong turn and…”

“…he is dead. This time, he will rot, and the queen too. Send Sandor Clegane with me and we will end their tyranny together. The realm will be a better place for it.” 

Jon was nearly speechless. “And how do you expect to charge into the Red Keep without getting yourself killed?”

“There are ways.”

Gendry grasped her arm then, but it only served to tighten her fingers around Needle’s hilt. “Arya, no.”

“Let me go,” she told him, meeting his eyes. They were pleading, but hers were sharp. He knew what she was planning.

“What ways?” Sansa wanted to know.

“Thoros of Myr.”

Jon looked as though he wished to leap from the top of the Wall. “Thoros of Myr. You would take him with you, to bring you back after you die? I will not have it. No one should ever suffer that fate and live to remember it.”

“I don’t plan on dying. It’s his magic I need. Him and Jaime Lannister. He deserted Cersei, has he not? She is Aerys Targaryen born again. Worse, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You cannot be serious,” Jon marveled.

“Arya, this is absurd,” Sansa said.

“I will go,” she told them. “Give me leave, or don’t, it matters not. I will go.” 

.:. 

There were twenty boys and girls standing before her, all aged ten to sixteen. They had been drafted for weapons training in the morning, some to the smithy in the afternoon, others to hunt and cook with little to no supplies. The group before them had advanced onto armor and mending but would return in a fortnight to retest their skills. The new recruits were new and unbloodied, children who scarcely knew how to wield knives instead of longswords. Arya was grateful for the distraction, even if it meant sparring against younger students who seemed fearful of the wooden blades in their hands. 

Podrick had become her delegated teaching partner with Brienne still away. Sandor Clegane stood on the sidelines, having nothing better to do with his current time but observe. His size and strength would prove too great a challenge nonetheless. Arya considered encouraging him to participate when the older recruits returned. Those matches would be worth watching.

“There is no stance, no position, no right way to defend against a knife,” she instructed, twirling her blunted dagger between her fingers. “You will forget everything you think you know, even something as simple as moving. There is no grace, not when someone is coming at you like this,” Arya slashed fiercely at Podrick’s jerkin, landing at least three marks in before he managed to raise his arms and snatch her wrist. Arya brought the dagger around his forearm and feigned deep cuts on each side. Podrick screwed up his face in surprise. 

“It’s easy to cut two ways, and easier still to switch hands.” She tossed the blade into her left and yanked the squire forward, slashing along his back and flank, avoiding the front. Skilled attackers would not give the victim a chance to defend. The position itself struck the students as odd, but she knew better than to miss this opportunity to teach them otherwise. Arya pushed Podrick away. “If you’re focused on the blade, you won’t see when the hand has switched. The fight is always brutal, and one of the most terrifying situations you will ever find yourself in. Even skilled fighters would rather meet someone face-to-face with a longsword than a knife.” 

“Then what are you supposed to do?” one of the boys wondered. He was tall for his age, a pig farmer’s son with half the wit. “How do you stop them from coming at you?”

“You can grasp the hand before you strike, or you can strike and forget the hand. It depends on where the knife is. If it’s anywhere near you,” she grasped a fistful of Podrick’s jerkin, pressing the point of the blade beneath his chin, “you can’t just strike, or you _will_ get killed. You must grasp the hand with the weapon before.” 

Podrick attempted just that, bringing a palm to her face as he pulled her hand away, though it had gone awry. She dodged him and managed to shove the knife even harder against his neck, enough to leave a bruise. The squire winced.

“And if you’re not quick enough, they will cut your throat.” Podrick was watching her intensely, awaiting another move. Arya brought the knife outward and to her side. “If the blade is out here and the other person is trying to stab you in the gut, there is little you can do other than move out of the way. It is easier at this distance, but not up close.” 

Podrick made to trap her wrist in surprise, but she yanked it away before he could. The distance was too long. A skilled attacker would be able to identify the threat and react before he had hope of retrieving the weapon. The Others were not so quick, but she was unwilling to risk such a thing. Arya brought the point just beneath his ribs. 

“Turning away from the direction of the knife,” she gestured over her shoulder, “is the best thing to do. You can try to stop their hand before they grab you, but once they do, it becomes very difficult to defend yourself.”

“Can you ever avoid being cut?” another student asked. 

“Yes, by not fighting with knives in the first place.” Arya released Podrick then, the first part of her lesson over. She offered him the dagger by the hilt. “A good fighter will not unsheathe their blade until it’s in you. Never trust anyone, with or without a weapon. Life is safer that way.”

_Heed your own counsel,_ a small voice said in the back of her mind. Arya ignored it and instructed the recruits to spar against each other as she looked on. They would need to be taught how to use knives against larger weapons next. The Others had battle axes, longswords, warhammers, and spears, and a knack for disarming when they fought in groups. They also did not bleed _._ Dragonglass daggers were far more valuable than their longer counterparts in this regard. Arya would need the Hound’s help after all, and so she sought him out across the courtyard. 

Clegane grimaced when she moved to stand beside him. He was the same scowling, heavily-muscled soldier she remembered. His tunic was made of black leather and textured in the shape of diamonds, with longer wool garments underneath. A light brown cloak lined with fleece covered his shoulders. “What do you want, girl?”

“I need you to spar with the older recruits when they come back.”

“Why?”

“You’re tall, strong, and terrifying to all of them. They will need someone like you coming for their heads if we’re to stand a chance against the dead.”

“I hate pretending.” 

“You hate everything.”

“You haven’t seen the dead. There’s plenty of small ones like you, and slow like that squire. Unless you plan on sending this lot against his royal highness himself, you don’t need me.”

Arya grinned. “Afraid of losing to a child?”

“I don’t fight little girls.”

“They are stronger than you think.”

“I don’t care. Find someone else.”

_He can run down butcher’s boys like Mycah, but girls are beneath him._ Arya shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself. I have a greater need of you elsewhere anyway.”

That captured his attention. “What are you on about now?”

“How badly do you want to see your brother dead?”

.:.

Sansa had not seen her brother so distracted ever since Robert Baratheon came riding into Winterfell with his brood of Lannister bastards. He had been dreaming of the Wall then, of being more than the bastard son of Eddard Stark, but he had that once and now he was the king. Even that seemed to matter little during their meetings with the northern lords. She had to bring him out of his revere several times before calling off the council meeting entirely.

“What is the matter with you?” she confronted him, when the Great Hall had been cleared. Sansa set her hands on the table across from him and leaned. “These meetings are for the north, so that we can devise a plan for when the dead come marching on the Wall. I do not know where you think you are, or what has you so occupied that you cannot focus on this task at hand, but I need you _here_.”

“She is pushing me, Sansa,” he confessed, after a moment. He was speaking of Arya. “Beyond my limits. First, we discover that she has been sneaking around with someone we thought we could trust, and now…” he sighed heavily. “Now she wants to go south with the Hound. I cannot in my right mind send her, but I know she will go regardless of what I say or how many guards I send to keep her here. Arya does not like being pushed into a corner.” He leaned back into his chair. “That list she has, it changed her. I never really understood just how much until now.”

Sansa understood. She understood the day she found all those faces underneath her sister’s bed. She understood the moment she thought Arya might take her life, before offering the knife as both a warning and matter of protection against their enemies. “She has shocked you. I am aware of that. This engagement came as just as much of a surprise to me as it did to you.”

“Then how can you be so calm?”

“Because Arya has always done things on her own terms,” she said. “Take that as you will. Her motives are beyond my understanding, but her intentions are one in the same. Everything she does is for our family.”

Jon frowned. “And somehow marrying Gendry is for the family.”

Sansa drew her lips together. She did not know what to make of that. “Maybe this is a good thing.”

“ _A good thing_?” his tone was incredulous. “How is this good? How does this help our family at all?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you really asking me that?”

“Arya has no intention of wedding anyone for the purpose of joining houses or gaining land or anything political for that matter.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Sansa agreed, “but if she really is marrying for love, it would not be the worst thing that has happened to this house. The Stormlands would be bound to us through her, and their children after them. She has not been promised to another or done anything like Robb.”

Jon gave her a sour look. “Don’t compare this to him.”

_Is he listening to me at all?_ “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He did not answer her. Jon crossed his arms over his chest and turned away in thought.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear,” she said softly, hoping to reach him. “As strange as it may seem, we should allow it to happen. Arrange for the northern lords to attend a wedding. We may not have the resources to make it grand, but we could find a way.” 

“I don’t believe Arya is as willing to wed him as she used to be.”

Sansa removed her hands from the table. “What do you mean?” 

“Did you notice her when Gendry agreed to our terms? She may be a faceless man, but you could feel her hesitation. Arya didn’t say anything at all, not until you mentioned the Hound.” 

Sansa considered that. Her sister had been very eager to leave, running as she always did when she felt she was being pushed into a corner, like Jon said. “She spent years trying to find her way home. The thought of leaving it again scares her. She will not admit it, but it does.” 

Her brother knew better than to think Arya could stay in Winterfell after the war, if she married Gendry. He also knew better than to think this would all far apart and that she would reconsider. Nothing ever returned to the way it was before. He understood that more than anyone. “Then what do we do?”

“We should speak to her. Invite her to mother and father’s chambers after supper and talk.”

“Why there?” he wondered. “Why not the solar?”

“It is more comfortable, warmer. It might make her feel safer.”

Jon considered that. “Then we have a plan.”

Sansa smiled a little. “In the meantime, you can go find the lords of the north and apologize for what happened in this hall today. We can reconvene in the morning, and with no distraction from the king.”

“You’re right,” he agreed, standing to his feet and adjusting his cloak. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Of course.”

When he left the Great Hall, she made for the courtyard, formulating yet another plan she had in mind. Arya was a difficult person to understand, but Sansa needed to get through to her before evening. 

.:.

A small, thin blade jet from her sleeve before she hit the ground. It was her only chance at forcing him to stagger back so that she could regain her footing. Arya did not know how she managed to convince Sandor Clegane to join her in a sparring match after the lesson with her students, but perhaps the prospect of killing his brother in the future sparked some sort of fire in him that she almost began to regret when he caught her off guard.

The Hound cursed aloud. Arya could see blood trickling down his right sleeve and over his leather jerkin. Steel protruded from his shoulder. Clegane pulled it out with a grunt of pain. “Where did you get these little needles?”

Arya grinned. “Didn’t see them coming?”

“Not really,” he grumbled, rolling his shoulder. “Speed nearly got my brother killed, but its Oberyn whose dead. Being quick won’t always save you.” 

“Though it works well. Don’t worry, I didn’t poison these.”

“Good, or I’d have to kill you myself.”

“Small chance of that.”

They sparred for over an hour, swinging and cutting, slashing and dodging. Arya was swift where he was slow. Clegane was strong where she was light. They seemed to work well together, establishing an understanding of each other’s moves within the span of a few hours. Travelling south would be an extension of that until the time came to take down Cersei Lannister and the Mountain. Arya longed for it. She supposed the Hound did as well.

She did her best not to think of Jon, or Gendry for that matter. They were distractions and she could not afford to be sidetracked. However, thinking about not having distractions was distracting, and Sandor Clegane managed to grasp his fallen sword by the blade and knock her leg out from under her with the hilt. He raised the sword above his head to deliver the killing blow. If not for his massive foot against her chest, she would have rolled away.

“Good to see you two are getting along,” Sansa’s voice chimed in from the sidelines.

Both of them looked to her. She was smiling an amused smile, but Arya knew she was not here to watch them fight. The Hound lowered his blade.

“If you don’t mind taking a moment to stop slaying my sister, I would like to have a word with her.”

He grunted. “She’s got little knives hidden in there somewhere. Watch yourself, little bird, else she’ll stick them in you." 

“I am fully aware. Thank you, ser.”

Arya rolled her eyes and stood, picking Needle up from the ground and sheathing it in her sword belt.

“Are you practicing for the Mountain?” her sister asked, moving to walk towards the Great Keep. “I would be concerned if you were.” 

“No,” Arya said, annoyed but not showing it. She followed Sansa. “We were just sparring. Where are we going?”

“To my chambers. I would like to have word with you." 

Arya groaned. “You sound just like mother.”

When they reached her sister’s bedchamber, Sansa produced a set of keys from her cloak and opened the door. She let Arya enter first. That struck her as strange. _Sansa must want something from me._

Arya met her sister’s gaze as it turned inquisitive. “The maester came to me yesterday. He believes that one of his acolytes are stealing resources from the storeroom. I was surprised to hear that among those resources, stocks of mint, wormwood, tansy, and pennyroyal were disappearing.”

She hummed. “Lots of people drink moon tea.”

“Except as of late, few have seen Maester Wolkan with such a request.” Sansa drew her cloak closer. “The last thief caught stealing took his purse. Others stole healing potions for themselves or their children, I assume, but moon tea...one wonders what kind of thief would take something worth twenty coppers.”

“Coin has been difficult to come by,” Arya said. “Winter is here.”

“And how long has Gendry shared your bed?”

_Oh, sweet sister_. “You might not like the answer.”

Sansa studied her closely, those Tully blue eyes boring into hers, searching for the lie. They looked her over all the same. She picked a grape from the bowl set out on her table, sat down, and ate it. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You always did things on your own terms, no matter what anyone else had to say. Jon does exactly the same thing." 

Arya noticed that but said nothing. The words were merely fact. Sansa had not said them with the intent to belittle or reprimand her.

“How did a blacksmith manage to capture my sister’s heart? Clearly, it wasn’t by trust. That struck a bit of…discord. He is fair to look upon, though. I expect you paid him a few late visits in the forge. Did any of them go awry?” When Arya did not answer that either, she pressed further. A small grin crept onto Sansa’s lips. She reached for a flagon of wine and filled two goblets. “No, you wouldn’t give up your virtue for comfort, or for anyone you didn’t think deserved it.” She offered her one. “He must have asked for your hand first. How romantic.”

Arya accepted it. “It _is_ fun watching you try to unravel my personal life.”

Sansa chuckled. “Am I getting close?”

“Not really.”

She laughed again, then sipped her wine. “Moon tea, I can’t believe you.”

“Robert Baratheon sired twenty bastards in ten years,” Arya reminded her. “I won’t take my chances with his son.”

“Then stop stealing from the maester. I drowned myself in moon tea when I was wed to Ramsay and he never said a word. You can ask him.”

If not for the short duration of their marriage, Ramsay Bolton would have otherwise flayed Maester Wolkan alive when he discovered Sansa failed to conceive. _She had to have known that_. “Or I can go into the wolfswood and find the herbs on my own.”

“You might accidentally kill yourself with poisoned plants.”

Arya smiled. She knew more about poisons than her sister realized. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”

A knock sounded on the door across the room. It was loud and urgent. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya,” a guard called. “The king has told us not to worry, but you must come and see. Dragons have been spotted flying toward the castle.” 

.:.

When a gust of wind erupted from the east, Sansa reached for Arya’s hand and wove their fingers together. She knew her little sister had only ever dreamed of dragons, going so far as to search the Red Keep for their skulls on her own. She could spend hours listening to Old Nan’s tales of Aegon the Second and his sister Rhaenyra Targaryen, fighting for the throne with their dragons. And now they would see them together, great beasts with wingspans that rivaled the size of the Dragonpit.

The guard brought them atop the crenellations to see. Jon was down below, attending to Lords Glover, Dormund, and Hornwood when they spotted their first glimpse. Two shapes emerged from the clouds, far enough not to be heard but close enough to see. Sansa wondered how fast they could fly, and how hot their fires burned. She would love nothing more than to see Cersei Lannister bask in their flames.

Arya gasped when they neared, her fingers tightening around Sansa’s. The Lady of Winterfell could not hide her enthusiasm either, for they could see the colors of their scales. Green and bronze, black and red. _Fire and blood_ , she thought. The sisters pulled each other closer as one of the dragons drew its first breath and roared, circling over Winterfell, dipping high and low, flying far and wide. No matter where they went, they always returned. 

Sansa could see the smallfolk of winter town emerging from their homes and shops. Some looked on in awe, others fled to safety. Many could scarcely believe it. Children pointed and horses whinnied, forcing the stableboys to pull their reins close. When Sansa looked over her shoulder and into the courtyard, the castle seemed at ease. Jon must have sated their qualms, or the fearful were already hidden.

“They’re beautiful,” Arya said in awe.

“They’re dangerous,” Sansa quipped. “But yes, they are.”

“Do you think the dragons can sense people with the blood of old Valyria? I’ve only heard stories, but…” she glanced toward their brother. “Could they know who he is?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa had never thought to ask. “I suppose we will learn soon enough. Queen Daenerys must be near if her dragons are here.”

Arya looked out into the distance. “I don’t see an army, and the scouts have yet to return with word.”

Suddenly, one of the dragons descended into the courtyard, its great green wings pushing against the air to hold steady. Smallfolk and nobles alike scattered for the walls, but Jon remained still. Ser Davos retreated several steps back to stand beside Sandor Clegane. Sansa had seen many strange things in her short lifetime, but a dragon was the strangest of them all. This one’s wingspan alone could make a war galley tremble in size. Against the light, its scaly skin glimmered like a thousand jade stones, and when it landed before her brother, the ground shook. 

The dragon stretched out its long neck towards Jon and roared. His cloak whipped against the ferocity of the sound. With its mouth open, Sansa saw several rows of sharp black teeth as deadly as the talons that bore into the earth. Her brother faced those bronze-like eyes without fear, and when the scream died out, the creature narrowed its eyes and leaned closer. Jon removed a glove. He reached to touch its snout and the dragon purred like a cat.

_Show a beast bravery, and it will heel._ Someone had said that to her once, though she could not remember who. _Show it fear, and it will devour you._

Ghost crept up behind, his red eyes wary and curious. The dragon moved its massive head to the side for a look and must have seen a fair meal. It growled before opening its mouth wide. Jon’s eyes grew large and frantic. He reached for one of the dragon’s horns along its jaw and yanked hard. “ _Daor!_ ”

The beast arched its neck and roared in his face again. This time, it sounded like a searing hiss. Bronze eyes clashed with grey, then red. Its wings flared wide against the open air, beating against the snow and freezing wind. When Jon shouted again, the second hiss was quieter and less defiant. The dragon folded its wings, stretched out on its belly, and glared. 

He said something in a foreign tongue then, touching the creature once more, gently stroking its scaly skin. Sansa recognized the word _mother_ in High Valyrian, but that was the extent of her knowledge. “What is he saying?” she asked her sister.

“You frighten the good people,” Arya told her. “Where is your mother?”

The dragon turned its head toward the southern gate, where Sansa and Arya stood, taking in every feature they could see. She did not know if they would ever be this close again. 

Something had managed to capture its attention with a whistle. The beast turned its massive head toward the kitchens, where Gendry stood with a large portion of pork shoulder in his hand and a smile on his lips.

Sansa heard Arya growl underneath her breath.

Gendry tossed the meat into the air, high enough for the dragon to roast it with fire. The flames singed the banner posted adjacent to the kitchen chimney, but that was the extent of its damage. The smith seemed rather satisfied, and when the dragon finished its prize, it made a noise similar to his whistle, lazily spreading its wings to flutter in his direction.

Arya was stunned. “Does it…like him?”

“His great-grandmother was Rhaelle Targaryen,” Sansa pointed out, though she herself could scarcely believe it. “He has some of the dragon’s blood in him. It appears they can sense it after all.” 

Jon said something to it next, another phrase in High Valyrian. The dragon snorted and spread its green wings, muscles rippling as it gathered its strength. They cracked like thunder. Dirt and snow lifted from the ground as it took to the sky.

“You just sent one of the most dangerous beasts in the world to bed without the rest of his supper,” Gendry remarked. Like her brother, Ser Davos Seaworth, and Sandor Clegane, he was incredibly calm, as though this occurrence was of the norm. 

“Rhaegal would have eaten my wolf if I did nothing,” Jon said, frowning. Sansa assumed that Rhaegal must have been its name. Ghost moved to stand beside the king, who brushed his fingers through the direwolf’s thick white fur. “Ser Davos,” he called to his Hand. “Where is the queen?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace.” The onion knight clasped his hands behind his back. “The dragons never go far without her. Perhaps they are close.”

Jon turned towards the nearest guard with orders. “Find the maester atop the rookery and bring him to me. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon that thinks Gendry and the dragons have some kind of bro bond because he stayed back to keep the them fed while everyone else was busy talking down Cersei in the Dragonpit. But the dragonblood thing is true, I think. It says that somewhere in the books.


End file.
